


The Harder You Fight

by fallingforcas



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Boxing, Domestic, Fights, Film Adaptation, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Heavy Angst, Hospitals, M/M, Parenthood, Please read, Revenge, Smut, Southpaw Au, Summary is shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:00:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 89,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5093393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingforcas/pseuds/fallingforcas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey Milkovich is the undefeated Heavy weight champion of the world. Living his lavish lifestyle, with his stubborn, level-headed husband - Ian - and his two beautiful kids, he doesn't expect the worst from his successes as a fighter. However, when a tragedy strikes and he finds himself spiralling into depression, Mickey has to fix himself in order to save and earn back the trust of those he loves. </p><p>(Southpaw Au)</p><p>(Chapter 9) With her hands fiddling with the edges of her papers, she shakes her head, her lips forming into a straight, blank line.“He doesn't want to see you, Mickey.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kings Never Die

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I wanted to do this AU for a while now, ever since I watched the film in the cinema. I really hope you like it - and are not drawn off by my shit summaries - and hope you carry on reading. 
> 
> The next chapter won't be for a couple of days - im so so sorry but back at college again and stuff is taking my time up - but I am still working extra hard on chapter four so please bear with me!!
> 
> Here are a few heads up, that you mind find useful; 
> 
> 1) In this story, Mickey and Ian met how they did in the show. However, season five did not happen and they stayed together through Ian's illness.  
> 2) Mickey started to train for fighting two years after Ian was diagnosed, to which he found himself a manager (John Potts) and started to grow successful.  
> 3) As I know, bringing kids into this is crucial for the films plot, but I wanted two. So, yeah. Deal with it. Yevgeny was born how he was on the show, with Svetlana being his biological mother. However, I decided that she gave full custody to Mickey and Ian (as his adopted father) after they wanted to move upstate for Mickey's fighting. Owen is from a surrogacy of both Ian's and Mickey's mixed genes, that were placed inside of Debbie.  
> 4) The plot-line will be slightly changed from the film, including additional characters ect. However, one main plot of the film has been changed as I needed it to be for the end of the story. (Hint. It's to do with Ian.) If you've watched the film you will probably work out what I'm talking about.  
> 5) please give me criticism is need be, but I do appreciate nice comments as then I know I'm actually doing something worth while instead of some bullshit.  
> 6) CAN SOMEONE HELP ME MAKE A BETTER SUMMARY?

It wasn't surprising that Mickey had always loved the concept of using his fists to prove a point, to win something, he succeed in the higher ground. Boxing was just the legal equivalent.

It wasn't the popularity, the crowd, nor was it the sexual appeal that apparently attracted many men who had fantasized about fucking a boxer. It was the swell of anticipation, the spur of adrenaline that rushed through his bones like a does of rough heroin. It was the illuminated spur of energy when he'd be thrown into the ring, his opponent bouncing on his feet just as jacked up as he was, his hands covered with his black gloves, heart throbbing and pumping his victorious blood around his solid, pumped body.

As he waits in the dressing room, headphones on, hands out straight to be taped, his mind calculates its every plan of move, ready to pounce when the bell sounded out across the huge arena of screaming crowds. His mind is focused, eyes locked to the slow motion image of his corner-man wrapping the white bandage around his knuckle. Sometimes, he'd wish Ian was the one who would do that job, but truth be told, he would be too distracting and too much of a risk towards Mickey's focussed, yet muffled, game plan.

The music in his ears, almost inspiring, blocks out the rambling of his corner-man – Iggy – he's glad because he can't concentrate when all Iggy rambles on about is his last winning title, and how he has to stay in his rank no matter what; bloody eyes and all. (Which, will happen after busting it open in training just a week before.) His eyes trace the movement of each bandage, the white material over the bone of his wrist, casing his tattooed knuckles.

Iggy wraps the bandage around his palm. His words are soundless to Mickey, but he can read his lips nonetheless. “Champion.” Mickey nods, he knows his rank, he knows he can stay in his title if he just _fucking_ concentrates. Iggy wraps it once more, his glances moving over to the athletic commissioner who stood by, watching and making sure that it was done correctly and not for Mickey's own winning advances. 

Mickey's eyes move now, down to the lettering and colour inked into the skin of his arm. It's a reminder, of what he has, what he's won, what he's winning  _for._ Mickey cracks his neck tensely as Iggy shifts the bandanna higher upon his forehead, leaning over to the side to grab some padding for the top of his knuckles. The music is getting louder, vibrating through his ears, testing him and his control for the noise of the crowd around the ring. When he takes them off, that annoying ringing sound will echo through his ears, and when he  _does_ take them off he'll be ready for the ringing sound that comes after a punch to face. 

The room itself is crowded – full of his entourage – full with noise and distractions. Most of them, he knows, others are his security and boxing commissioners. Mickey's too endorsed in replaying his tactics, and controlling his fuelled excitement and rage, but he can see his manager – John Potts – standing in the corner, on the phone to sponsors and advisor’s. Mickey looks away. Iggy presses his fingers into Mickey's palm, nodding for him to clench his hands as he would in the ring. 

“Yeah?” Iggy looks towards Mickey, fingers still pressed into his skin. Mickey does nothing but nod his head, he chews at the gum that's moving around in his mouth, the music running with his racing mind that's controlling and preparing for the fight. Iggy grabs the white tape, rolling it over the padding on the knuckles, on top of the bandages. He cuts the stray end, letting go of Mickey's hand as he opened and closed his fingers in the cage of his under glove. 

Mickey keeps his head down, running with the usual routine that occurred each couple of months that he had a crucial opponent. Iggy smacks the padding of the wrist strap, testing its strength and reliability. Slowly, he runs cotton straps between each finger, giving them enough space each to move and clench with Mickey's fist. He does the same to his right hand, wrapping and taping each component that was needed to keep his hands from breaking. 

The commissioner lifts his hands, examining each wrist strap carefully. Mickey bobs his head as the commissioner draws, with a black marker, lines across each glove, determining whether they were fit and correct for ring. He nods, placing the pen back in his pocket with it's secured lid. Mickey steps up, still not saying a word to either his brother or any other stood watching in the dressing room. Iggy grabs one of his gloves, pulling it over Mickey's right hand. Colin – he's other corner-man – grabs the second glove, pulling it over his left. 

Mickey watches carefully at each tie, each strap, each hole being filled with the lace. With both gloves secured, tied and taped at the wrists, Mickey tests the width, the shape, the space within each glove. He clenches and throws a test punch in the air, feeling the weight and cushioning of each hand. It was good. The gloves were perfect. He was ready. He hoped. 

The commissioner leaves his initials at the tape of the right glove, nodding towards Mickey before leaving the dressing room and shutting the door behind him. Mickey's feeling the anticipation, the drive, the longing to fulfil his passion and will power to fight. After all, his whole life he had been taught to fight to get by, to prove yourself, and  _that_ is exactly what he was doing. 

The rest of the room empties, leaving him in midst of his own breathing and thumping tune pressed against his ears. John pats him on the back one last time before the door closes completely. His head is bowed when he sees a pair of familiar pair of legs pass by his seat. Mickey hears mumbling, but he doesn't need to take off his headphones to know who had arrived. It was obvious. Ian never missed a fight. 

Mickey doesn't look up, not yet, with Ian in the room – just stood there – could distract his whole mind set and set him back a couple of places. Ian  _was_ a distraction – a good one for sure – but in the rules of boxing,  _distractions_ were off limits a couple of minutes before ring-time. 

As usual though, Mickey can't resist but look towards the man that stood by him through all of it. The only person who actually  _believed_ he could be capable of being successful and achieve something. Ian stood there in a black fitted suit, a tie clasped tightly around his collar, his buttons undone on his jacket, his hair all combed back – the red like fire burning against the bright, florescent lights on the ceiling. He looked  _beautiful._ An obvious distraction. Mickey loved it, even if it nearly jeopardised his focused mind. 

Ian chews at his bottom lip before grabbing Mickey's gloves and wrapping them around his waist. Mickey gasps, his breath quickening in both fear and sudden adrenaline; Ian had a way of making Mickey feel more nervous than stepping into a ring infront of hundreds of people, ready to get the shit beaten out of him. Ian takes off his headphones, smirking as his body stepped closer to Mickey's. 

Ian strokes Mickey's damp hair, running his hand down to the side of his cheek. “Hey.” He whispers.

Mickey's eye is still a little bruised from training, the cut still stitched, but even with a wince he manages to nod his head, “Hey.” 

Looking a little unsatisfied, Ian leans back a little, eyes tracing over Mickey as if concerned. His hands rest at the sides of his face, the soft touch of his finger-tips nearly collapsing Mickey over the edge. Ian nods, voice stern but soft, “You're ready, Mick.” He places a kiss on his forehead, sweeping back a piece of fallen hair. Whispering, he bites his lip, “Don't get hit too much, okay.” 

Suddenly, Mickey's already in the ring. The bell sounds, and suddenly he's moving, ducking and jabbing and  _breathing –_ lesson one; always maintain your breathing – and protecting. He remembers each detail;  _your arms are your shield, use them; Move around but don't tire yourself out, don't go for it unless you know you have a definite spot of weakness, take advantage of everything, when he hits the floor keep him down._ Instead, Mickey's rage was the better of him. 

It was already round three and Mickey was bleeding from almost everywhere. His gum shield was sitting tightly, but harshly, in his mouth, the blood from his nose trailing down and washing out his lips. The adrenaline discarded the smell and taste of the metallic liquid, and the pain seemed almost nothing against his fiery attitude. He did his best to taunt the other opponent – who was skinnier, but faster than he was – he was screaming, yelling insults, cockiness radiating off his tattooed, sweaty skin. Ian always told him not to be cocky; cocky got you bloody. Bloody was not good. Bloody was weak. Weak was loosing. 

He threw a couple of punches, landing them both into a crushing hug-like embrace. Mickey pushes the other man off him, his back against the ropes – the worst place – and his eye tensing and contracting against its stitches. Mickey laughs, he's not sure why but his cockiness always came out during a fight, and the guy swings in a punch to his left cheek. Mickey takes two more hits, one to the chest one to the cheek, he ducks in the next throw and earns a cheer from the crowd. Despite his own injuries, his opponent was getting tired and that's what he needed. 

He throws a punch. Gets one back. He rounds the ring, moving the other guy towards the ropes on the left side. The other man throws a punch to his jaw, knocking him back but awakening him to the next move that he successfully dodged quickly. The fast speeds up, jab after jab, each of them turning tired and more restless. Soon, Mickey's back against the ropes and his opponent is using his advantage to jab the shit out of his chest; Mickey holds his gloves to his face, trying to block the weakest part of his body from the sharp jabs. 

The referee splits them up, but the burning rage in Mickey that burns deep plants itself on the surface. He yells over the sound of the crowd, “That all you got, huh? That all you fucking got?” The guy looks nothing more than pissed off, so Mickey internally scoffs. The bell rings and they both stalk to their corners. 

Mickey sees Ian watching tentatively in the crowd, his head shaking a little with a smirk against his lips. Mickey feels that rush of hope; that at least someone believed that he could do it. He sits himself down at the corner, tilting his head up towards Iggy. Medicals rush over, one calling out. “Your eye is pretty bad, son.” 

Mickey hisses as his head is turned from side to side, he glares over to his opponent. He was not giving up just for one fucking  _eye._ He barks, “Just fix the fucking eye, Ig.” 

They remove his gum shield, letting him run his tongue around his teeth and on his gums. Mickey hisses as they squirt a little water against the small cut at the top of his lid. Iggy is crouched before him, yelling directions and tactics to use; despite how useful that would be, Mickey was only interested in one thing;Beating the living shit out of the guy. 

Iggy slaps him across the face, releasing him from his gaze at the other guy. “Hey, Mick. Fucking listen to me, aright.” Mickey turns to him, nodding his head at each word. “This is your fucking ring, right. You're the fucking champ.” 

Suddenly, Mickey's drawn to shouting coming from the ring-side. Ian's voice. “Hey! Hey, Mick!” 

Mickey darts his head to the side, sniffing up and wincing against the small flannel dabbing against his eye. He looks over to Ian, who looks like an angel in the dark light – sending him words just through his green orbs of eyes – and nods. Ian puts his palms out, shaking his head, "Stop fucking around, Mickey!" 

The words are more than enough to get the blood pumping in his system. Iggy's still talking, his hand dabbing at the cut, “Stop with the bullshit, Mick. You don't get the title for being a cocky little shit. Tire him out, he's got a sharp jab – dodge it.” 

Mickey shakes his head, anger barrelling, “What the fuck do you think I'm trying to do, huh?!” 

“Just fucking _Listen-”_

Abruptly, Mickey pushes them all off, the flannel attached to his eye falling away. He shoves his gum shield into the right place and pushes off the corner. “Get that shit off me. Lets fucking go.”

The bell rings – round four – and Mickey launches into action. They both move around the ring, airless jabs hitting nothing. Mickey leans forward a little, a prize mistake with a gift of two sharp hits to the jaw. He shields his face, letting his left hand lose to countless jabs that seemed ineffective to the opponents smaller frame. Mickey sends two harsh punches to the man's face, hitting him square in the jaw. The opponent strikes back, swinging for Mickey's right side, nearly wounding him a little. Quickly, he dodges a passing hit, sending his own and nearly knocks the other player off of his feet.

The opponent stumbles onto the ropes, his body looking slumped and tired. Mickey steps back waiting for him to move, when he does he jabs his jaw harshly, with a heavy fist, and sends him straight to the floor of the ring. The crowd cheer immensely, Mickey awaits the guy to stand up. The referee gets to six and the kid is back on his feet, his breathing so loud Mickey could almost hear it through the noise of the crowd. The rage is pumped in Mickey's chest, he grinds his teeth and when he sees that the other man is ready to fight he charges and sends him crashing down once more.

It was a violent throw, the kid fell straight to the floor, his face all plump and bloody. Mickey could say he felt guilty, but he'd had worse on the street; this kid was getting paid for doing this shit. Acting pumped, Mickey bounces on his feet, waving his gloves in the air as the referee got to nine. The kid tried, oh did he try, but ropes were strong enough, and he was sure as hell _not_ strong enough to beat Mickey, and he simply gave up.

The crowd goes wild; screaming, hollaring, yelling his name like crazy. Iggy, Colin and all the other corner-men dash under the ropes, lifting him from the ground. Mickey swipes his brunette strand away from his eyes, raising his fists victoriously. He wanted to jump down, run towards Ian and hug him tightly like the sap he found himself to be, but the victory – it was too strong to bear. He turns, just once, and caught the redhead smiling, shaking his head as he hands clapped in-front of him. Mickey just manages, through his cut eye, Ian muttering, “ _You fucking dick.”_

It only makes his victory more real.

The host calls out through his microphone - “ _Officially, from Madison Square Gardens Arena, we give to you your champion, by knock out. Still undefeated and still heavy weight champion of the world – Mickey Milkovich.”_ Mickey raises his hands as the belt is wrapped around his waist, his ears ringing with the yells and chanting coming from the crowd. John rushes up, hugs him. Mickey runs over to the ring-side, where Ian was smugly waiting, he wraps his arms around Ian's back, pressing his blood-soaked lips against his. The kiss was everything he needed to make it real.

_Hell fucking Yeah, He was the fucking champion._

***

The light is way too bright in Mickey's eye. He blinks a couple of times whilst the medic flashes the small torch into his pupil, and nods for confirmation that he could see clearly. Ian was slumped in the corner, sipping at a bottle of beer. Iggy and Colin were cleaning up the dressing room,chucking worn out bandages and tape into the trash. Mickey mumbles, his mouth clogged with swelling, “Hey, Ig. Get the belts for the press conference.”

They all nod, gathering the belt, his gloves and some papers that John had to confirm. The door swings open and they all scatter, the lights from cameras at the rings flashing through. Mickey shifts awkwardly against the medical bed, his legs slightly dangling off the edge. His face hurts, real bad, but the stare he's getting from Ian was much worse.

Blood drips from his gums, falling into his lap. Mickey coughs a little as he grabs himself a small towel and begins to try and wipe it up. Ian sighs, standing up from his seat. A little sob escapes his throat, but he hides it as he threads his fingers through Mickey's damp hair.

“Hey.” He whispers, “C'mere.” He grabs the towel and leans towards Mickey's face. The brunette mumbles something underneath his breath. Ian's finding it hard to even look straight – he hated seeing Mickey all battered and bruised, he didn't want him hurt full-stop.

His hand stops before Mickey's face, “What you say?”

Mickey ducks his head, blood still dripping over his lips. It didn't hurt, he just felt ashamed that he couldn't even clean a little bit of blood off of his own chin and mouth. Ian stands between his legs, his hand delicately pressing against Mickey's cheek, his other dabbing the towel gently across his lips. Mickey closes his eyes, inhaling Ian's scent; the perfect smell of cologne, cigarettes, and Irish sweet soap.

Ian stops dabbing the towel and leans back, his hand moving to Mickey's hair. “You want some water, you look a little -”

“I'm _fine.”_ Mickey mutters under his breath. “I'm going to take a shower.”

As he steps up Ian's concern grows; Mickey's slurring his words, his movements were slow and delayed, and his eye could barely open. He could go to a press conference like that. Ian shakes his head, pressing his hand into Mickey's chest. “Let me take care of you.”

Protesting, Mickey stumbles to move. “No, fuck off, just -”

Ian's impatience escalates, he stands directly in-front of Mickey, his eyes glazed and nose slightly flaring. “I don't give a shit that you're basically _allergic_ to asking for help, but I'm going to take fucking care of you no matter what. No let me -” He pulls Mickey's arm over his shoulder, walking them a little towards the shower area at the back of the room.

They get under the shower head, Ian switches the water on and strips himself from his jacket. He stands before Mickey, pulling his hand onto his shoulder. “Right, don't let go.” He crouches a little and helps Mickey out of his shorts, discarding them on the small stool where his jacket lay.

Mickey coughs a little, blood splattering onto his freehand. His grip on Ian's shoulder stiffens as he stumbles on his footing. Ian stands up, worry filling his eyes. Mickey shakes his head, “Don't look at me like that, Ian. Just fucking help me do this, aright. I'm fine.”

Ian sucks back a breath, “Fine my fucking ass, Mick.” He leads him over to the spray of water, leaving him there to lean against the cold tiles as he stripped himself from his clothes. He needed to wear them afterwards, anyway. He walks over to Mickey and places him below the spray. The blood starts to trickle down Mickey's face, down his chest, to his feet.

They are both silent as Ian grabs the soap from the small tray attached the wall. Mickey hisses as Ian begins to massage his fingers into his skin, releasing the tension and cramped muscles in his chest. His hands clutch to Ian's side as the redhead rubs in the soap over his abs, arms, shoulders and neck. The spray is hot against his skin, making his cuts sting. He hisses now and again, causing Ian to shoot him concern and glazed looks. Instead of releasing his words that could eventually haunt Mickey, Ian steps forward and wraps his arms around his husband, kissing into his wet hair as the water ran over their bodies.

***

Camera's start flashing. Voices start chattering, and soon Mickey and Ian are sat side by side in the press conference room. Mickey's skin itches against his black button up, his leg finally coming to a halt from shaking when Ian's bony hand creeps around his knee, squeezing it contently.

A report stands up, note pad in hand, directing a question towards him. “Mickey, we all thought you'd win this one early. Were you expecting such a difficult fight?”

Ian glances over to him, nodding for him to answer. Mickey stutters a little, his voice still hoarse and broken from his slack jaw. “Uh, I – fuck – I don't think you can expect anything. Um, to be honest with you, I was looking forward to showing up, walking the ring, and eventually beating the fuck out of him till he fell to the ground.” He laughs a little into the microphone, intertwining with a couple of laughs that followed around the room.

Ian kicks at his foot, whispering, “ _Mickey.”_

Mickey clears his throat, wanting nothing more to _not_ piss Ian off. He already knew that Ian hated him fighting – mainly for the reason he'd come home looking like a truck had hit him, and the kids would ask numerous questions sometimes that neither of them could yet answer.

“Nah, man. I mean, I did expect a hard fight.” He ducks his head a little, looking briefly over to Ian who was smiling a little brighter now. “You know, I put my family through a lot. My husband probably going to kick my fucking ass later,” The room laughs and Mickey clears his throat, “And Yevgeny and Owen, if you're watching go to bed, aright.” The room laughs again, Ian squeezes his knee, kissing at his cheek which makes Mickey's skin shiver.

Another reporter steps up, “Mickey.”

Mickey nods, pointing to the man in a black suit, clutching to his tape recorder. The man's voice is stern – obviously he knows his research. “Mickey, you're nearly thirty, undefeated, are you running out of -”

Laughing, stubbornly, Mickey speaks, “Wait, man. Can you say that again?” The crowd cheers, Iggy and Colin lift the belt behind them, chanting out his name.

“It's impressive, it is.” The reporter adds, cutting through the cheers. “But who you going to fight? _Who_ is your next fight?”

Just as Mickey prepares his bullshit answer, a voice erupts from the press. “Me! I'll fight him.” Everyone turns to the corner of the room. Stood in an expensive suit, was a tall yet slender man. His hair was cropped short, his dark skin was covered in tattoos up to his neck. His hands were clasped together, his impressive ring glimmering like his smug smile.

Mickey scowls, “What?”

The man nods his head – Mickey's seem him before, fighting, he was a tough contender, fast but smug. He didn't mess around, but he was known for rivalling up opponents. - He smiles wide, his gold tooth clear against his pearly whites. “I mean, man, the fans around the world want to see it. Who the hell is there? No one. Your crew knows it, all these beautiful people in here know it. I know it.” He smirks, causing Mickey to heat up, his fists clenching against the desk.

Ian places his hand over Mickey's, ducking his head to see his blue, raging eyes. “Mick, stop. Don't listen to his shit, just -”

The man calls out again, “I just want to know why you're so chicken shit to fight me, Milkovich.” The press start rambling, taking photos, causing Mickey to fire up even more. With his gold ring, the man fists the air, “Man, I know why. You're fucking scared you'll get beat, ain't ya.”

Mickey's ready to launch – living in southside taught him a lot of things, straight down to the point that if some fucker was calling you weak, or scared, you break their knee caps – but Ian gets there before him, not with his fists but with his smart-ass mouth that, for once, Mickey was grateful for.

Ian grabs the microphone, his voice harsh. “I'm sorry, but who the _fuck_ are you?”

The intruder answers, his voice slightly flirtatious. “You know exactly who I am, baby.”

Mickey feels like grabbing a gun, shooting the fucker dead, and burning his body with his favourite lighter. Instead, he pushes up from his chair, fists clenched at the sides. Ian rushes up, “Mickey, stop it. Please sit the fuck down, he ain't worth it.”

John steps over, placing his hand on Mickey's tense shoulder. “He's just trying to start a fight.”

The fucker raises his fist, “Mickey. Mickey. Mickey. You've not been hit by a real man before, have you.” His entourage laugh with him, nodding their hands in agreement.

Mickey bites at his lip, his anger fuelling in his chest, hands raring to just pound the shit out of the fucker. He leans towards the microphone, sending Ian a reassuring look. “Man, you have no fucking idea what you're talking about. Obviously, this cream cracker hasn't been hit at _all.”_

The press laugh, all still snapping photographs. Mickey chuckles, still mocking the guy to the high heavens instead of getting arrested for attempted murder. “What you got in that fucking cup, man?”

“You're all show, I know that. You ain't no real champion.” The fucker taunts. “Why won't you fight me, Mickey, huh? Why won't you get into the fucking ring with me?”

The noise grows louder in the room, masses of voices chanting and bickering with the probability of the fight. Mickey shakes his head; he's had too fucking much for today. Ian kicks at his leg, giving him a weak smile that read ; _Lets just go home._ Mickey nods, changing the subject but his chest was still filled with the anger that wanted to be released.

Mickey clears his throat, mind rattled with red. “Right, I'd just like to say thanks to my crew, my manager, and the whole boxing community. Also to my husband, Ian, who's looks bored as fucking hell right now. Anyway, if a fucker wants to ruin my victory, he's gotta win me first.” The room goes up in a uproar of questions and noise, Mickey simply places the microphone down and grabs Ian by the shoulder.

***

“I _want_ you to fucking line it up, John!” Mickey yells, his voice echoing down the small narrow hallway that he and John were stood in.

John grunts, “Line it up?”

Mickey tries to suppress his anger; the guy had annoyed the hell out of him, like _more_ than the fuck that repeatedly tried to hit on Ian a month back and Mickey had to warn him with a crack to the jaw and a kick to the ribs. Least in a ring it would be legal to beat the shit out of the guy.

“Yes.” Mickey's voice is strong, struck with will. “I'm going to shut him the fuck up.”

“Mick-”

Mickey sweeps papers off a table behind him, chucking books that laid on top of it against the wall. “I _said,_ line it the fuck up.” John shakes his head in disbelief, as if he's going against his job of believing Mickey is the winner. Mickey's mind clicks, his fists clenching at the side, muscles contracting, “You think he's a better fighter, don't you?”

John places his hand on Mickey's shoulder, it's immediately shoved off with force. “I didn't say that, Mick. It's just -”

Without control, Mickey turns and flips the whole table upside down, kicking at it aggressively, picturing that idiots head to be underneath his foot. He spits towards the ground, before turning to John and hammering his finger into his chest, “Line it the fuck up.”

***

Because of Mickey's fighting successes, they were able to buy a house that was big enough for the four of them. It was in the middle of a rich estate, something neither of them would have ever dreamed of having when they were kids, but it was just fit for them. Despite the lack of feeling of home of South-side, they loved it as their _home._

Ian pulled up outside the door, turning the ignition off he gives Mickey a quick kiss against his cut lips, his own soft lips meshing them together perfectly. Mickey groans into the embrace, his arm wrapping around the small of Ian's back. “Can we stay here?”

“I wish.” Ian laughs, unbuckling his seat belt and Mickey's too. “Come on, Mick. Get your lazy-ass up I ain't carrying you over the threshold if you're expecting some shit like that.”

Mickey licks at the corner of his lips, trying to hide is smile. God, Ian was such a dork. He swats Ian's hand away. “Fuck off with your smart-mouth.”

With Ian giggling like an idiot, they both exit the car. Mickey stumbles a little but catches his balance against the top of the car. “I little help here for the Champion of the world, please.”

Ian locks the car, flipping Mickey the bird before rounding the front of the car. “ _God,_ could your head get any fucking bigger.” He wraps his arm around Mickey's waist, leading him towards the front, double doors.

Once inside, Mickey leans his body closer to Ian's, fingers fiddling with the hem of his black suit. “You know what, Gallagher, I'm going to _rip_ you out of this fucking suit.” Because _damn,_ Ian sure looked good in a suit – despite his aching back, fractured nose and cut lip, Mickey was not turning down any sexual activity for tonight.

Ian kicks the door shut, his giggle echoing through the quiet house. It was a lovely sound, Mickey had to admit, but he loved it even more when it was in their bed, all husky and yearning. Ian carefully unclasps himself from Mickey, “Please do, I can't wait to get out of this thing.” He loosens his tie and begins to walk over to the small side table.

Mickey rushes after him, “Hey, where the fuck you going?” He grabs onto the back of Ian's jacket.

Struggling, Ian plants his phone and keys onto the table. “I need to get you some shit for that eye, and some food -”

The butler takes Mickey's belts and passes by towards the office in the far corner, Mickey thanks him before yelling out, “ _Yevgeny! Owen!”_

Ian smirks, stalking over and clasps his hand over Mickey's mouth. “Hey, fuck head. They might be sleeping, aright.” He pulls off his jacket, discarding it on a random chair, he steps back over to Mickey and runs his thumb across his lip. “Now can I get you some ice, Mr heavy weight?”

Mickey goes to reply, but his attention is sidetracked when Fiona rushes down the stairs. “Hey!” Her hair is all swept, tussled to the side, and her eyes look a little worn down. Ian and Mickey always asked her babysit whilst he was at a fight.

Fiona smiles, putting her fist out as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Congratulations, Mickey. I heard you kept your title.” Mickey smiles shyly, fist bumping her and giving her a small hug. Fiona was always there through everything, despite a few ups and downs regarding stupidity a couple of years back when Mickey and Ian had split for two days.

Ian scoffs, “He nearly killed the guy. I don't really call that _keeping_ the title.”

Mickey shows Ian his middle finger before turning to Fiona, “They still up?”

Fiona nods, pointing up the stairs. “Yeah, Owen dropped off half an hour ago, but Yev is still up. He wanted to wait for you to get back.” She walked down towards Ian, giving him a tight hug whilst Mickey took to the stairs.

Ian presses his hands into Fiona's shoulders, chewing at his bottom lip. “Please don't tell me they watched that fight, Fi? Please tell me you turned it off.” Ian hated showing the kids the fights – sure, it was good to see their dad winning, but he worried about the violence. They were too young to understand that it was only acceptable in a ring.

Sincerely, Fiona swats Ian's chest. “Stop being so paranoid, Ian. Of course I didn't let them watch it. If I did I would have to face the wrath of my younger brother, I obviously don't want that.”

Ian blows out a breath of relief, his shoulders sag and he hugs his sister tightly. “It's not as bad as what we went through, though, right?” He remembers the days back home, the fights, the terror, emptiness of security. It was something that he didn't want their kids to feel, he wanted them to not have to worry about Frank coming in and stealing from the squirrel fund, he didn't want them to worry about working two jobs and missing school.

Fiona giggles, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Do you ever miss, Frank?”

Jesus. If there was one thing that Ian missed about that old drunk it was the entertainment he shed around the house; the nakedness, the snoring, the open mouth sleeping that allowed Ian to chuck paper into his gob. Only that, nothing else. Ian snorts, “Do I fuck, I've got everything I ever needed right here.”

***

Mickey creaks the door open to his son's bedroom, moving it slowly until the light from the hallway opened up into the dark room. His smile grows as he hears shuffling coming from the bed, his son scrambling to pretend that he was asleep. Mickey laughs quietly, moving over towards the small bed that Yevgeny occupied. “I saw you.”

Yevgeny shuffles a little more, the light from the hall shining against his little pale face, his smile evident. Mickey remembers when they first had Yevgeny – when Svetlana had given him and Ian full custody of the child, but still came to see him. The smile remained since then. Mickey smirks, patting the bed as he sat at the edge. “Don't try and fool me, little man, I saw you moving.”

Shuffling next to Yevgeny, Mickey lays next to his son. Yevgeny creates a loud, fake snore which causes Mickey's chest to ache through the giggles that escaped his lips. He wraps his arm around Yevgeny's side, pressing his fingers into his skin to tickle him. “Hey, hey. Wake up, you owe me a victory hug, big guy.”

Suddenly, Yevgeny darts around, his eyes wide and smile bright and wide against his delicate, pale cheeks. He giggles, looking up to his father with admiration, “Did you win?”

Mickey taps his chin, “Let's _see,_ did I win?” He hums to himself, before tickling the hell out of Yevgeny's side, tackling him into a tight hug with his face pressed into his son's small and warm neck. “Of course I won.”

Yevgeny sits up in his bed, embracing his father with his arms wrapped tightly around his back. He laughs into his shoulder, his little giggle reminiscent of Ian's, “I missed you, daddy.”

The words never failed to shine hope into Mickey's heart, his son would never forget to stay up late for him after his fight. It was like an obsession, Yevgeny would plead and plead to go to one of the fights, but even of Mickey the ring was a scary place, he didn't want to bring his son to watch him get punched and jabbed every five seconds. Mickey leans back from the hug, his teeth slightly still blooded, but his mouth formed into a grin. “I missed you too, buddy.”

Yevgeny falls back against his pillow, his duvet falling below his chin. “Did you get _the_ belt?”

Mickey nods, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes from smiling so wide. “You want to see?”

Suddenly, Ian walks through, ice pack and drink in his hand. He flicks the small lamp on by the door and walks over to them, “In the morning, little man, you need to sleep.” He leans by the bed and slaps Mickey's ass, “And so do you, so move your ass.”

While Ian shuffles a couple of things off their son's bed, Mickey sits at the top of the bed, his back against the headboard and his sore arm wrapped around his son. Yevgeny giggles, shifting a little so his head was nearly in Mickey's lap. “Why can't I see daddy fight?”

Mickey kisses the top of his head, “Dad thinks they're too violent, buddy. We can't go against your dad's word or _he'll_ kick my ass in a fight.” Ian had a rule for the fighting; once the boys got old enough they could go, but for now, they couldn't because it would hurt them to not understand why their daddy was getting punched and hit for no reason.

Ian slaps Mickey's head, “Yeah, I will if you don't let our son sleep.”

“But _dad,”_ Yevgeny whines, pushing out his bottom lip. “I see that stuff _all_ the time. Uncle Carl lets me watch The Walking Dead every-time he comes down.”

Mickey pulls the blanket further around the little boy, nodding, “Yeah, I know.”

Ian rests his chin at Mickey's shoulder, his eyes narrowing a little. “Okay, that's going to stop. Your uncle Carl is not a good example, buddy.”

“Why not?” Yevgeny asks, eyes wide with wonder.

Letting out a sigh, Ian replies, “He's been to jail, Yev. He's _all_ for violence.”

Mickey scoffs, leaning his head back a little to near into Ian's space. “I've been to jail?” He's not sure why he answers with a question, but he was questioning why Carl was not a good example _just_ for his previous drug dealing, shoot outs, hit and runs, and Mickey was okay with fighting people in a ring to near death. It amused him, in fact.

Ian nudges him in the side hard, “Shut up, idiot. You're not mean to tell him _that.”_

Yevgeny lets out a giggle, nudging Mickey in the side to imitate Ian's actions. Ian barks out with laughter, kissing the side of Mickey's face before leaning down and doing the same to their son. He slaps Mickey's shoulder, “Right, get up, _now._ Stop depriving our son from his sleep with your shit stories.”

Mickey shakes his head, pulling a face behind Ian's back to amuse Yevgeny. “Aright, aright. I'm moving as fast as I can.” He kisses Yev on the forehead, sweeping back some stray dark hairs that fell before his eyes. Before he leaves the bed he sees a phone, his face scrunches with confusion. When did he get this? “A _phone?”_

Ian frowns, gripping to Mickey's arm. “No, it's a fucking air balloon. Of course it's a phone.”

Glancing back at his son, then back to Ian, he puts it back on the side. “Why you looking at me like I'm crazy?” He asks, morally confused. If he knew his son had a phone he would have text him himself telling him whether or not he won the fight.

“ _Because,”_ Ian starts, dragging Mickey from the bed and pushing him towards the door. “you asked me to buy him that phone, idiot. Gosh, all that fighting it making you old.” Ian grabs some dirty laundry and folds it over his arm, shooing Mickey out of the room which a plastered grin. “Go, move.”

The eight-year old snorts, his hand pointing towards Mickey. “Dad's an idiot!”

Ian throws his head back laughing. He leans down towards their son and pecks a kiss at the tip of his nose, “That's right, buddy, your dad is an idiot. _But_ he's a good idiot, yeah?” He glances back briefly towards Mickey who shakes his head with narrowed eyes. “Night, night, little man.”

Mickey's voice echoes louder than he expected, his tone amusing. “Hey! Get away from my son!”

The red head's face curls up into a contagious smile, he stalks over and slaps at Mickey's shoulder covered by his shirt. “You're such a dick, you know that. Come on, get out. He needs to sleep.” He grabs the handle of the door and pulls it shut behind them.

Swiftly, Mickey slaps Ian's ass as the red head bends down to retrieve a shirt that dropped from the pile in his hands. He flinches, his reaction causing Mickey to giggle and almost stumble into the lamp beside him. Ian swats Mickey's face away, shaking his head whilst trying to rid of the grin that started to hurt his cheeks. “ _God,_ why did I marry your annoying ass?”

“ _Hm,”_ Mickey taps his chin, nearing to Ian. He presses their bodies close together, the clothes Ian had been holding squished between their chests. He whispers into Ian's ear, “I forgot. Why don't you remind me of why you _did_ marry me, firecrotch.”

Ian pushes him away a little, playfully. He licks at his lip, before retorting, “Please, I'm not going to do that, your head is already too big. You might explode if I say even _one_ good thing about you.” They pass a couple of rooms, including Owen's. “Believe me,” Ian adds, “the list is never-ending, and I wouldn't want our cleaners staying here for weeks trying to get brain matter off of these walls.”

Mickey shakes his head, smirk remaining. How did he end up with someone _so_ perfect? Surely this must be a dream, of all sorts. He grabs Ian's freehand and pulls him towards his chest. “You're such a smart-ass, you know that. I think I need to shut you up.”

Licking his lips, Ian taunts, “Hm, maybe you should.”

Just before Mickey nearly pounced on Ian in the middle of their hall-way, a door creaks open and small pad of feet walk up towards them. They both turn to the wheezy cough, and small croaked voice of their youngest. “Daddy?” It was Owen, his red hair was all messed up, his teddy bear was clutched beneath his arm pit, his pyjamas were all crumpled and disorientated, he stood and rubbed at his eyes.

Mickey discarded all of the steam – just for now – and ran to his little boy. “Hey, little man.” He reaches down and rests Owen on his hip, sweeping away the red hair that hide away his piercing bright blue eyes. The four year old rests his head sleepily onto Mickey's shoulder, his smile weak but could break a billion hearts. Ian walks over after dumping the dirty laundry in the basket at the end of the hall, he stands close to Mickey's side, admiring his own view of the two.

Owen reaches his small hand across Mickey's cheek, his mouth opening and closing before finally asking what he always asked, “Can I count?”

Nodding, without noticing Ian's sigh, Mickey beckons, “Course you can, just be careful on the eye, aright?” Owen nods, tracing each mark with his small, chubby index finger.

Gasping, Owen touches the cut above Mickey's eye, “That's a big one, daddy.”

Mickey winces, loving the soft pad of his son's finger against the sore. “Yeah, I know.”

Owen continues to count, loosing his numbers just once, before finally reaching the number that Mickey already knew from medics. Owen gasps, biting onto his small lip, he leans back slightly in Mickey's tight hold around his waist, “Eight.” He holds up both hands, showing him nine fingers instead of eight, but nonetheless it was adorable.

Both Ian's and Owen's face looked a little pained at the figure. It was hard to find either of them not adorable. Owen's lip even quivers for a moment before he states, voice slightly stern for a four-year-old. “Daddy, you got hit _a lot.”_

Mickey wants to feel guilty that both of his sons, and Ian, had to see him like this. It wasn't a daily routine, but when he did have a fight he wouldn't come out of it crisp clean. He bites down on his lip, immediately regretting it. “Little man, you should see the other guy.”

Ian lets out a breathless chuckle, before intervening and pulling Owen into his own hold. “No, Mick, he should not.” Just the thought of the other guy looking almost dead was enough to make Ian's stomach churn, never mind having their child witness that. He turns to Owen, tickling under his chin a little, “Come on, big man, we need to get you to bed.”

 

 

***

As soon as they get into the bedroom, the heat changes. Ian pushes Mickey down onto the bed, his concern for his injuries more evident than his will to just pounce. Mickey raises his brow in question, his frown forming a v line at the top of his nose. “Gallagher, stop fussing around. I'm fine, just fucking fuck me.”

“First,” Ian crawls up the bed, his knees in-between Mickey's legs, “you need to stop calling me _Gallagher,_ I'm not a Gallagher any-more, you dick.” He leans down and presses a soft kiss onto Mickey's bubbling, laughing lips. “Secondly,” he places his finger up. “You need better vocabulary. You can't use fuck all the time, Mick it's not -”

Mickey steals Ian's words with his own mouth, pressing his lips harshly against Ian's with an urging force. He had waited for this moment, for weeks now. He could not risk his testosterone for his big fight, and oh _god,_ he just needed to feel Ian now. Ian tenses at first with surprise but immediately reacts with a gasp and urge to continue. His hands roam over Mickey's chest, unbuttoning his shirt until it ripped open. Mickey groans, his mouth moving slowly from Ian's lips, to his jaw and down the sweat of his collar bone. He pulls at the buttons of Ian's shirts, popping them open one by one until they were both topless.

They pull apart, eventually, and Mickey gasps for breath. His hands rest around Ian's neck, fingers tracing shapes over his shoulders and up at his nape. Mickey grins, his lips curling upwards in a way that only happened with Ian around. “What do you want?” He asks, voice husky.

Unexpectedly, Ian blurts, “I want – I want to take a break.” Mickey's eyes narrow, his smile dropping a little. Ian's hands trace over the bumps of Mickey's chest, his eyes looking anywhere but at Mickey's. “I just,” He stutters, “I just thought we could blow off the Tori match, re-think things, get you a fight for next year, you know.”

Mickey's head twists with confusion. _Not fight? Next year? What the hell?_ His hands stop against Ian's skin, he licks at his dry lips, trying to look through his eye that could barely keep open with the swell. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

Ian just shakes his head, staying silent as he shifted a little on the mattress.

Mickey places his hands at each side of Ian's face, “ _Ian,”_ He calls, grabbing the attention of his husband finally. “Why the hell would I blow off that match?”

Swallowing harshly, Ian lets out a long breath. “Mick, I didn't like what I saw tonight. At all.”

Mickey can't help but scrunch up his swollen face, his eye clenches and pain thrives through his body but the pills Ian had put in his drink helped dim down the sharp jolts. He rears back his head, trying to work out what Ian was thinking, “Wait, what did you see? You saw me fucking win tonight? Isn't that a good thing?”

Ian lets out a huff, “Mick, look at your face.” He places his finger against the slash in Mickey's cheek, tracing down towards his mouth. His eyes glazed over, but Mickey still couldn't address why a couple of cuts was bad. Ian had seen this all before.

Slightly annoyed, and offended, Mickey's face looks like crumpled paper with dabs around blotchy red paint splattered across it. “What the fuck you talking about?”

Leaning his head down, Ian brushes his knuckles at the side of Mickey's cheek. He huffs out a little sob, and kisses at Mickey's chest. “Mickey, your face – it's just-”

Mickey threads his fingers through Ian's hair. “What are you talking about, Ian?” Ian does nothing but lift up his head, wiping underneath his nose and shuffled closer to Mickey. Grabbing the back of Ian's head gently, Mickey asks, “Can I ask you something?”

“What?” Ian replies, wetly.

“Imagine if I said this,” Mickey starts as his hand absently traces down the small hairs at the bottom of Ian's neck. “ _Look at your face, look at your fucking face,”_ Mickey taunts, repeating Ian's words which just makes the red head giggle into his chest. “And _then,”_ Mickey talks louder, cutting Ian's laughing off but allowing the smile. “I started crying, huh. You'd kick me out.”

Ian's giggles vibrate against Mickey's skin, his whole body shivering with what felt like a sudden adrenaline that he only knew from his fights. He lets this one slide, Ian's blotchy but yet flushed face was too hard to resist. Ian leans up on his elbows, letting his legs fall a little behind him. “I'm sorry, Mick. I am, but you fucking scared me, aright.”

Mickey frowns once more, “Wait-”

Still rambling, Ian grabs Mickey's knuckle and kisses against the small cuts that were spread across each finger. “You can't fight like that anymore, Mick. You could have killed him _or_ worse, you could have gotten yourself killed.” He looks up, waiting for Mickey's reaction.

The brunette twists his head a little against the pillow, “But, we won tonight.”

Ian stops kissing at his skin, he keeps clutched to Mickey's hand but sits up against Mickey's lap. He rests his legs at either side of the older man's hips, his free hand brushing over the sore that rested at the side of Mickey's rib cage. “It ain't that, Mick.” Ian mumbles, looking down. “It's the _way_ you fight.”

Mickey shifts against the pillows, leaning up on his elbows. His frown deepens as he confronts the situation. The _way_ he fought in the ring was the only way they all got by, the only way they paid the bills and afforded such a luxury of a life. How could Ian question that? “What the fuck you talking about? The _way_ I fight bought us this house.” He waves his hand in thin air, before adding, “The _way_ I fight bought you that fucking hot-ass suit.”

Ian puts his head in his hands, ashamed but still unsure. “I know. I know, Mick.”

“It bought the kids fucking education.”

“I know, Mick, I know.”

Mickey puts out his hands, still confused. “Ian, the _way_ I fucking fight gave us this life.”

Abruptly, Ian places his hands at either side of Mickey's face, shifting further into his lap. He finally bursts out, breaking Mickey's ongoing list of how the _way he fights_ it monumentally good for them. “Listen, Mick. I know, right, I fucking know.” He lets out a breath, before brushing his thumb against the cut below Mickey's eye. “But I want to _enjoy_ it.”

Again, Mickey cuts in, eyes furrowed. Ian was not making any sense. “Where is this going, Ian?”

Ian exhales loudly, “Mick, I _want_ to enjoy it _with_ you.”

Mickey shakes his head out of Ian's hold, lifting his body up against the bed. He lets out a exhausted breath and shoves at Ian's chest to get him off his lap. He had no time for this shit. This was meant to be a night of victory, good sex, and – hey- even a good spoon at the end of the night. This was not helping anything. He steps off the bed, leaving Ian sat there like a lost puppy. “I don't know what the fuck you've been drinking, man, but it's sending you crazy.”

As Mickey reaches the end of the bed, Ian calls out – still not looking over his shoulder – his tone all ragged and a little torn, “The harder you get hit, the harder you fight. I fucking get it, Mick.” He turns around on the mattress, facing Mickey with his piercing blue-green orbs that could make him crumble in a second. “I get it, Mick.” his voice is almost breathless, giving up.

Mickey shakes his head, scowling. He waves off the conversation and heads for the bathroom. “I don't want to hear any of this bullshit right now, man.” He's too tired, too frail, _too_ fucking sick of this bullshit and right now, he needed to take a nap for atleast a couple of days.

Ian makes an impatient sound, slamming his hands against the sheet of the mattress. “Mickey, fucking listen to me. Now you are taking _way_ too many hits before you _actually_ win!” Ian's voice is growing louder, his breathing more rapid.

Stopping in his tracks, Mickey turns on his heel with tiredness, “Listen to me, Ian. This is a good night – or should I say _was_ a fucking good night -”

“I _love_ you, Mick.” Ian bursts out like venom, his eyes watering like a glass pane in winter. He sits himself at the edge of the bed, watching Mickey. “You are all I fucking care about.” Ian notices Mickey standing still by the bathroom door, it's a usual reaction he guessed.

Ian taps his own bare chest, “The four of us. That's it, Mick. That's all that fucking matters. So, I'm going to tell you the truth, whether you like it or not.” He tells himself not to sob, not one bit, but his lip quivers and his heart beat quickens and it was hard to master the control. Mickey looks over, his eyes glistened in what Ian knew Mickey wanted to show anger, but instead it showed his immense fear of what Ian might say.

Fiddling with the hem of the blanket, at the end of the bed, Ian mumbles, “You know, you're going to be a fucking drunk if you carry on like this.” Which Ian knew was a strong hit to give – Mickey's father was a drunk, an addict, a rapist, a sadistic evil man, and to be compared to that would be the most hurtful thing in the world. “Mick-” his voice breaks, cutting off his sentence.

Mickey steps forward from the darkness of the small hall, his breath heavy against the silence that eloped them in the room.

Ian wipes a hand underneath his nose, using his palms to rid of the tears that streamed down his pale cheeks. He inhales deeply, the words tumbling out from where they had been bottled up for months on end. “What about when they grow up, huh? What do _you_ want to look like, Mick?”

The kids were always a touchy subject – sometimes Mickey would even consider taking a break just to be with them, but with the power of government, he couldn't risk not making money and providing for him family whenever he could – and Ian knew that. Mickey steps out from the hall, his hand running through his dark hair, over and over.

“Fuck. _Fuck_ me.” Mickey hisses underneath his breath. He nears the bed, pacing the wooden floor as if a bell would ring out any minute. He can feel Ian's eyes on him, the way he would watch every move, just like he would at ring-side. Mickey laughs, darkly. “Why the fuck you gotta lay the truth on me right _now._ Fuck.”

Ian lets out a shaky breath, “Mick -”

Mickey continues to pace the floor, cutting in with no question of a doubt, “You say it, man, I'll fucking do it. Aright, you say it and i'll do it.” To Mickey, this felt like giving in. That he was handing his title over to Ian, without a fight. Ian looked guilty, his eyes all glassy and filled with something that Mickey wished he could read.

Ian shuffles on the bed, putting his hand out towards Mickey. “Get here, you fucking idiot.”

Slowly, Mickey rounds the bed and sits himself next to Ian. His body weight leans against the other man's, their arms brushing and skin touching sending a sudden spark up his spine. Ian nudges him gently, pressing his chin into his shoulder. “Mick, I just don't want you to get hurt.”

Mickey exhaled, resting his head on top of Ian's. “It's kinda part of the job.”

Gently, Ian clasps his hand around Mickey's knee, squeezing it a little. He leans into his ear and whispers, his voice delicate, “I know it is, but one day you're going to get knocked the fuck down and me, Yev and Owen will have to pick up the pieces.”

Ian's voice doesn't make Mickey tremble, shake, or his knees go weak, it makes him calm, content and somewhat safe from everything else. He glances over at the man who seemed to have an answer for everything, he can't help but wonder how he got so lucky to have him, or how lucky he was to even have _met_ him. All he knew was that he was grateful. He whispers back, “They're not going to be pieces, aright.”

Mickey leans in, pressing his lips against Ian's. The kiss is soft, delicate, as if he could be carved by angels and save the world from horrific wars. When Mickey kissed those lips it felt like _home._ His hands slip to Ian's back, pulling him closer to his chest. Ian gasps lightly, the sound almost inaudible but still there to tell Mickey that Ian understood. Mickey falls back against the mattress, Ian follows with his hands roaming smoothly across Mickey's toned chest.

Breaking the kiss, Mickey looks up and bites his lip. Ian giggles, brushing his finger against the brunettes slack, open lips. “You know what?” Mickey asks, without realising the tug at the corner of his lips.

Ian chuckles, the sound more than pleasing. “What?”

Huskily, Mickey concludes, “So, I went ten rounds -”

“Hm,” Ian smirks, rocking against his knees in-between Mickey's legs, elbows at either side of the other man's head.

Mickey aimlessly places two fingers up, eyes all droopy but still filled with fire. “You know what that means?”

Ian leans down, “No, what does that mean?” He latches his mouth onto one of Mickey's fingers, sucking against the skin and ravishing it with his tongue. His eyes never leave Mickey's, a glint shining in the corner with lust.

“ _That_ means,” Mickey hums, voice still smooth, eyes watching as Ian continued to suck against his finger, causing his dick to grow hard in his pants. “ _That_ means, I've still got two rounds in me.”

The red head moves himself into Mickey's lap, his legs shielding at his sides. He bites at the tip of Mickey's finger, smirking around it. “ _Ohhh,”_ he draws out, lips curling into a smile. He flicks his hips purposely, rubbing their hard erections together over the layers that barricaded the touch. Ian chuckles gruffly, knocking his nose against Mickey's cheek. “You want to go two fucking rounds with me, tough guy?”

Mickey licks his bottom lip, inhaling Ian's sweet scent. “Yes, I fucking do.” He breathes.

Ian rocks his hips again, relishing in the sound of Mickey's breathless moan. “Yeah?”

“Fuck--” Mickey blurts, his own hips jolting upwards.

Teasingly, Ian brushes his lips over the tip of Mickey's still, hovering finger. “You know, that's pretty impressive.” Mickey hums beneath him as he bites at the tip again. Ian's eyes don't budge, watching as Mickey's pupils dilate. “You're very brave.”

Mickey snorts, running his hand over the back of Ian's neck. “Stop fucking teasing and kiss me, asshole.” He pushes forward, capturing Ian's lips with his. Ian makes it his aim to stay slow and sensual, his hands cherishing and feeling their way around Mickey's, now delicate, body. Mickey gasps between their lips, his hand cradling Ian's face to keep it close to his.

Ian pushes his body further into Mickey's, the buckle of his belt beginning to dig into Mickey's chest, as he deepens the kiss. The brunette shifts into a perfect sitting position, his freehand reaching down the curve of Ian's ass as he pushed him closer into his lap. He groans in pleasure as Ian's fingers rake into his hair, tugging lightly with urgency to drive the kiss.

Leaning back a little, Ian breaks away and leaves a sweet, innocent smile between them. Mickey pants lightly, his breath tickling Ian's face. Suddenly, Ian moves his hips, rolling them against Mickey's as his arms loop around the brunettes neck, embracing him. Mickey's hands explore Ian's back, tracing down the curve of his spine and up to his shoulder blades. He drags his nails, softly, down the pane of his back, his lips still attacking Ian's.

“ _Fuck,”_ Ian moves his lips to the side, peppering his kisses over Mickey's jawline and down to the column of his neck. He can feel his heart pound in time with Mickey's, his chest heaving with adrenaline and excitement to move. Mickey squeals, his arms tensing around Ian's back as the red head sucks a mark against the pulse point on his neck. After Ian's done, Mickey moans breathlessly as the other man licks over the sore, kissing it gently before pushing him down onto the mattress.

Mickey's hands claim Ian's hips, squeezing them a little as Ian rocked against him. His hand grips to the back of Ian's neck, staying put as the red head shimmies his way down his chest, cherishing and worshipping his skin as if it was made of gold casing. Ian makes a path of kisses down Mickey's chest, his fingers playing at his nipples.

“What do you want, Mick?” Ian asks, voice dark.

Mickey's back arches as he feels Ian's hands desperately work at the buckle of his belt. His breathing quicken, his head growing a little light-headed, as he feels Ian stripping him from all of his layers. “Fuck,” he utters. “Fuck, I want you, _ah,_ I want you.”

Ian chuckles, his hands finally touching Mickey's erect and already leaking cock. His hand darts to Mickey's hip as the man arches his back in whimpers as Ian's lips touch the wet tip. Darting his tongue out against the slit, Ian swallows him whole and works his dick. Mickey's a mess beneath him; thriving and chest heaving, head thrashing against the pillow, it was only nice to put him out of his misery after all, _and_ he looked fucking _perfect._

After making sure Mickey was full prepared, fingered, licked and already wet, Ian removes his own clothes and slides up the length of Mickey's body. He sweeps the damp hair from his husbands face, kissing the tip of his nose with affection. Ian bites at Mickey's bottom lip, “You ready, Mick?”

Mickey can hardly breath; the fingering session had been so intense that his mind was scattered all over the place. His hips bucker upwards and his lips brush against Ian's. “I was born fucking ready.”

Ian hums, rolling his eyes a little at the statement and greediness of his husband. He kisses Mickey's forehead before reaching over to the side-table, retrieving a tub of lube and a condom. Leaning back against his knees, he allows Mickey to actually catch his breath, he rips open the rubber with his teeth, flinging the plastic wrapper away from the scene.

He pinches the tip of the rubber before rolling it down his hard, waiting cock. Mickey's watching him intensely, licking at his lips and spreading his legs further apart, inviting Ian in. Slowly, Ian flicks up the lid of the lube, dipping his fingers into it and spreading it down his cock and over the tip of the rubber. After applying, it rubs a little around Mickey's rim, teasing him a little with a prod of his finger.

Mickey gasps, his legs already trembling for a climax. Ian balances himself between his legs, one hand gripping to Mickey's leg and hooking it around his own hip. Mickey's face is pressed into his neck, his heavy breathing forming a pool of sweat into his collar. Ian bites hard on his lip as he resists slamming hard into Mickey; they hadn't fucked in a while, so this needed to be slow.

Lining himself up, Ian presses his forehead against Mickey's. He presses the tip into Mickey's entrance, eyes locking to Mickey's reaction. The brunette hisses, his fingers digging into Ian's shoulder blades. “Come on, Man. I'm fine, hurry the fuck up.”

Ian complies, slowly pushing himself in further. His hips jolt a little, sending a shock through Mickey's body that caused him to moan out in sheer pleasure. Ian uses his arm as leverage and takes his time to push in fully. Once he's bottom out, they both groan loudly in union, their bodies connected into once and they fit _perfectly._ Finally, Ian starts to move with kick of Mickey's heel into his ass. His rhythm starts off slow, the thrusts smooth and sensual, feeling Mickey's ass clench and contract around him. Mickey started to gasp louder, his breathing more heavy, his fingers dragging down Ian's back as the other man started to thrust faster inside of him.

“ _Fuck,_ Ian.” Mickey barks out, earning a prized laugh from his husband. He cradles Ian's face with his left hand as their bodies move together, attaching their lips until it became too hard to breathe.

Ian giggled into the kiss, sending vibrations through the both of their bodies. He hums, moaning and hissing as he felt himself come close. Mickey's legs tighten around him as their lips brushed together and their breaths became one. Ian's hips quicken, the coil in the pit of his stomach tightening into a knot. Reaching between their chests, he pumps Mickey's leaking dick with care. His finger brushes the tip, smoothing the wet pre-cum over the top.

Gasping a little, Ian chuckles. “You look so beautiful, _fuck.”_

Mickey pushes his ass back a little, his hips matching Ian's rhythm. He feels his legs tremble, his ass clenching around Ian's cock, as he felt his climax near. Through his ragged breathing, he manages in a low, quiet exhale, “Shut the fuck up.” Instead, Ian kisses him.

Ian pounds him for a couple of seconds more, marking his hips with fingers as his other hand pumped furiously at Mickey's dick. They both chant and plead as they felt themselves coming closer to the edge. Mickey's the first to let go, his ass clenching around Ian, his mouth whispering Ian's name as his dick spilled white ribbons between their chests. With just that, Ian finds himself coming completely into a bliss, his cry soft but raspy as he filled the condom.

“ _Shit.”_ They both call out as Ian rides out his orgasm, kissing into Mickey's clavicle.

Mickey loops his arms around Ian's neck, drawing him closer so their noses were literally touching. He smiles mellowly, his eyes drooping a little, the squint in his eyes making it hard to even make out the cut below it. Ian shifts inside him, causing a jolt of pain to shoot through his body. “Fuck.” He blares out, his eyes clenching shut.

Concerned, Ian leans back, checking Mickey over with wide eyes. “Fuck, I'm sorry. Shit.”

Shaking his head, Mickey brushes back the stray hairs falling across Ian's forehead. “Don't worry about it.” He whispers, his voice so delicate _he_ couldn't even recognise he was saying it. Instead, he pulls Ian down for a kiss, rolling his tongue with Ian's as he relished the sweet touch. He pulls back and Ian's smiling shyly, his cheeks all flushed and his hair all over the place.

Mickey couldn't help it. Ian looked to perfect _not_ to say it. “I love you.”

Ian knows he should pull out now, but it's too warm and too close to rid of the feeling. He rests his head at the base of Mickey's neck, his fingers absently running down Mickey's jawline. In a whisper, his face breaks into a smile, “I love you too.”


	2. The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Errors will be altered - also for the last scene I might add something more into it as I don't feel like it's my best ugh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THINGS TO KEEP IN MIND-  
> 1) WARNING: HEAVY TRADGEY DOES STRIKE  
> 2) if you're worried by this chapter's content and how the next chapter will go, i'd like to give you a hint (and if you have watched the film, as said before, you will click on. I have changed Ian's characters plot line, so it won't exactly be the same as what happens in the film to his character.)  
> 3) Mandy was taken from their family home at the age of 15 - In this story Mickey is older older than her and was old enough to look after himself whilst she was taken to Children's club.  
> 4) Mandy will enter this story at a later moment - however, at this moment she is in Indiana with her fuck-wit boyfriend who will come in later also  
> 5) I LOVE WRITING ANGST SO IM SORRY IN ADVANCE FOR WHAT MIGHT COME  
> 6) Just remember, it will all be okay in the end.

Mickey wakes with the light almost blinding him from the huge windows in the bedroom; one of them forget to close them before they slept the night before. He squints, trying to adjust his eyes to the extreme light that felt warm against his bare back. Rubbing his face into the pillow, Mickey tries not to feel the shoot of pain reaching up his spine and around his neck. With his left hand he pats the bed beside him, trying to find Ian in the slumber of his sleep. When he realises that the place is vacant next to him, he groans loudly. “ _Iann.”_

He turns onto his back, regretting the move as he splutters into a coughing fit that results in specks of blood all over his hands. He tries to sit up but his back is aching like fuck and his legs feel numb and are too tired to move. “ _Ian.”_ He calls out again, but gets nothing but a couple of birds tweeting outside of his window.

Instead of calling out some more, because his throat was dry and stung like a bitch, he pushes himself up onto his left arm. Blood trickles from his mouth and down onto his pillow, he absently tries to catch it in his hand but he's too weak to even do that. Slowly, he removers himself on the mattress, pulling back the white duvet wrapped around his torso, and plants his feet against the floor at the side of the bed.

As he reaches the edge an excruciating pain rides up his spine, he hisses loudly. “Jesus, _fuck.”_ He knew the consequences of fighting, he had been doing it for years, but getting older made it worse and his back needed to heal the fuck up. He steps up onto his wobbly legs, finally gripping a balance with the help of the headboard, and stumbles over to the mirror which had a post stick note taped to it.

Mickey can barely see, but he already knows who it's from. His face cracks into a smile when he reads Ian's scrawny handwriting;

 

_**You should see the other guy – Ian** _

 

Picking it up he feels himself dim in pain, flashes of Ian invading his memory. His thumb brushes over the pen lines before he sticks it back on the mirror. “Fucking dork.” He says to himself, cheeks growing red in a flush.

Standing in-front of the mirror he notices all of the bruises that had formed over night – the one on his side, a dark black bruise at his collar bone, the evident cuts all darted around his eyes and nose. One was more special than the others; the red mark at the column of his neck, curtsey to Ian the night before. He lets his fingers trace the small mark as his eyes closed and remembered the hot and heated moment the night before.

Mickey hears the kids outside; laughing, screaming with joy, shouting Ian to look or jump with them on the small trampoline they had bought. Looking at himself, coughing up blood into the white sink, Mickey would question the reason for fighting and getting beat up to look like shit, but when he hears the happy voices outside he remembers just _why_ he risked his health each time.

***

Ian's sat by the pool on a deck chair, Owen between his legs as they watched Yevgeny jump recklessly on the trampoline. He can't break the smile on his face as his sons laugh and yell to each-other. Sure, all of it came from Mickey getting beat up and hurt every couple of months, but it was sure good to see them all happy.

He lies back against his chair, threading his fingers through Owen's red, soft hair as the four-year-old continues to colour in a picture of two boxers inside of a ring. John is sat on the second chair, a pad of paper in his hand and a drink in the other. They had been good friends for years; him and Mickey had met John inside the Alibi, quoting that he could do big things for a scrapper like Mickey – and well, he pretty sure did.

Ian leans forward on the chair, lifting Owen further into his lap. The picture is coloured in a little messily, but it was easy to make out what and who he was picturing it to be. Pointing to the fighter that wore black shorts, black gloves and had black hair – which Ian immediately grinned at – Ian asked, “Who's that, Owen?”

Owen giggles to himself, a spit bubble popping on his lips as he continued to colour in the black shorts that look a little more like a skirt. He points behind Ian, his grin growing wider as his attention drew away, “It's daddy!” Ian chuckles, leaning his chin on his son's small shoulder. Owen taps the second fighter on the page, who looked like he was wearing a navy, blue suit. “And _that's_ uncle John.”

Ian bursts out into laughter, watching John's face fall into confusion but amusement. Darting his head around he watches as Mickey carefully makes his way over to the trampoline, high-fiving his son before jumping onto the springy surface and tackling him into a tickling fight.

When John's laughter dims down, he slaps his hand onto the pile of paper in his hands. “Oh, yeah. I got you these.” Ian takes them and rests it in his lap, scanning over the writing. John claps his hands together, looking hopeful. “It's a two – three year fight deal, training lasts over that time.”

Looking over to Mickey – who didn't look too in shape as he clutched his back each time he bent down to tickle Yevgeny – Ian felt a pain of guilt wash over him. It was Mickey's dream to fight for as long as he wanted to, but they _did_ need a break and Mickey _especially_ needed a break from it all. Soon he'd be hitting the walking stick like some old man. Ian shakes his head, tutting through his teeth a little, he combs a hand through his hair. “John, it ain't going to happen.”

“Listen, Ian.” John starts, placing his drink down. “Mickey has been my fighter for ten years, I know what's best for him.

Ian can already tell that John is trying to persuade him with _who knows best_ but he isn't going to give in that easy. Mickey had promised him that whatever he said would go. Ian lets out a breathless laugh, looking over to Mickey and Yevgeny, he confronts, “ _And_ I've been with Mickey for like a hundred years, I know what is _better_ for him.”

John shakes his head, mouth scowling a little. “I think Mickey can talk for himself -”

Ian slaps John's arm, tilting his head. “Come on, John. You know it. He needs some time off before he,” he covers Owen's ears, “breaks his fucking neck.” Letting go, he kisses the side of Owen's face because shifting backwards on the sun bed.

Instead of just accepting it, John challenges, “To do what?” He points around the garden, nodding towards the pool and over to the trampoline. “To sit on his ass and watch the sun go down? That ain't Mickey and you know it, Ian.”

Knocking his head back against the sun bed, Ian groans with frustration. “He _needs_ a break, he can hardly stand up, John. He hates having people help him do shit, he needs to relax.” He looks over to John who doesn't look at all impressed with what he's telling him, but no one will convince Ian that Mickey should get back in the ring when he's spitting out blood nearly every hour.

John shakes his head, “For how long though? One week, two weeks? The fucker is going to bite his hand off if he doesn't get back in the ring.”

Ian starts to laugh, his hand absently combing through Owen's hair. “Seriously, John? You trying to hustle me?” He knocks his head back as his chuckle fails to subside. “We've been friends for a _long_ time you can't do that.”

Immediately, John starts surrendering his hands. Chuckling himself, he tries to explain his offer in more detail, “Nah, man. I'm not trying to _hustle_ you.” He leans forward, “Let me tell you something. Do you have any idea how many fighters come to me because of my relationship with _Mickey?”_

Ian nods, biting his lip, “Don't try hustling me, John, I'm on to your shit.”

John tuts, patting his chest dramatically. “We're family, Ian. I'm just telling you some facts.”

Just as Ian goes to reply, he hears Owen's gasp as he drops his book and runs over to Mickey who's heading their way. “Daddy! Daddy! I drew you a picture!” The little boy's feet pad against the wooden deck, his hair flowing through the small breeze.

Mickey stumbles before picking his son up and resting him on his hip. “You did? What is it?”

Owen leans back in his hold, pointing to the book that was sat by Ian's feet. “It's a picture of you and Uncle John fighting. I coloured it in and _everything.”_ His small gasp releases a chuckle from Mickey's chest as he leads himself over to the sun beds.

Placing Owen down in his previous spot, Mickey picks up the picture and shakes his head. “Son, me and your uncle John ain't going to fight soon.” He squeezes himself next to Ian on the sun bed, clutching to the picture in his hands. “I'd kick his ass.” He adds, earning a middle finger from John.

Ian shuffles into Mickey's side, pulling his arm around himself. John wipes the sweat from his forehead, grin against his face. “Ah, man. We were just talking about you. Ian's like an _animal._ You should of heard the things he's been saying about you.”

Mickey places Owen's picture onto a small deck table before placing his hand onto Ian's chest. “I bet he fucking has, guy never knows when to shut up.” Ian elbows him in the chest, nearly winding him; it was a fair punishment. Mickey tries to laugh it off but the pain in his back is still aching like fuck, despite taking his pills.

John grabs the file of paper from the table next to Ian, passing it over to Mickey. Ian sends him daggers through his glare as Mickey opens up the first page. Unsympathetically, John carries on with his spiel, “Mick, I was just telling Ian about the new contract deal I got a permit for.”

Eyes scanning over the writing, Mickey nods. “ _Right.”_

With his hands resting at his thighs, John uses his twinkling smile. “10 million for a fight.”

Ian's getting restless, he sits up against Mickey's side, looking between the two with narrowed eyes. He slaps Mickey's knee, his frustration building. “ _John,_ I just told you. We're passing on this fight, he needs a fucking break.”

Mickey acts a little hesitant – this was his career after all, but Ian would kill his ass if he decided to go through with it. - but he agrees with Ian, planting his hand back onto Ian's chest where it had been before. “He's right, John. My back is going to give way if I don't at least take two fucking weeks to recover.” When he shifts the muscles in his back clench, tightening up into a cramp. “Shit.” he mutters, trying to move himself into a more comfortable position.

“ _Daddy, come jump with me on here!”_ They all hear Yevgeny shout from the trampoline. He's jumping high, his dark hair moving crazily around as he sprung up each time. Owen takes the hint, he chucks his crayons down and darts over to the trampoline, imitating his brothers moves of trying to do a front flip.

Ian kisses Mickey's cut knuckles before lifting his arm over his head, “Mick, go over there before one of them breaks their fucking necks.”

Mickey turns his head, groaning a little as he moves. “Why the hell have I got to do it?” he takes Ian's glaring, daggering, eyes as a sign of _just do it asshole,_ so he gets up – with a struggle. His back is killing him, riding pain all over his body like an infestation.

Ian slaps his ass as he walks off, giggling to himself; the fucking dork. Impersonating Mickey from the night before, he puts his best _Mickey Milkovich voice_ on, “You're the _heavy weight champion_ you can do anything!” He raises his arms in the air dramatically, bursting into a fit of laughter when Mickey shoots him a blank face.

The brunette turns back and kicks at his feet, “You fucking _owe_ me, Gallagher.

Just as expected, Ian hurls back, “It's Milkovich to you now, idiot!”

***

Mickey hates speeches. Fucking loathes them, and now he has to speak to over a hundred people at a charity dinner about his life story. Sure, people thrive off that bullshit and give away their money through a common sob story, but Mickey didn't want to speak about his bat-shit crazy father and dead mother to a room full of people that didn't _really_ know him. It took a while for him to even confess his own sexuality to everyone, never-mind bring up the past and relive it all.

They're all sat in his and Ian's bedroom; Owen and Yevgeny wouldn't be going with them, but they always sat with them as they got ready. Ian was darting around, trying to find his best suit, fix his hair _and_ sort all of Mickey's shit out. Mickey's sat crossed legged on the bed, paper in-front of him with his speech draft scribbled on it.

Yevgeny is sat across from him, headphone in one ear whilst his head rested in his hand watching his father struggle to come up with words. Mickey presses his fingers into his forehead, stressing out about the stupid-ass speech. Testing it, he reads out loud, “I want to thank everybody from the children's club, 'cause this place saved my little sisters life.” he mumbles some more, “I grew up with my bat-shit crazy father – my mother had me when she was in-incarcerated -”

He chucks his blunt pencil and grabs another, mumbling to himself and then asks, “Wait, how the hell do you spell _incarcerated?”_ Mickey wasn't really the literate type – fuck that, he didn't go to school to learn his ABC's he went to sell drugs.

Shrugging, Yev suggests, his voice a little toneless, “Why don't you just say in jail?”

Mickey hadn't realised how grown up his kid actually was – he could just write _in jail_ but it wouldn't be very articulate of the heavy weight champion of the world. He sways his hand in the air, stopping Ian from mumbling letters out around the room, “It's fine. Forget it, that shit don't matter.”

They all listen as Mickey runs off the rest of his speech, “I got beat up, burned, all that shit -” he feels himself hyperventilating with all the memories flooding back into his head, all the memories in which he took years of trying to get rid of. He shakes his head, pushing the paper off the bed. “Fuck this. I can't do this.” He pushes off the bed and stalks over to the bathroom hall.

“Hey, _Hey!”_ Ian calls out, rushing over to him with only his boxers on. “Mick, stop.” He grabs onto Mickey's arm, spinning him around. “What is it, Mick?”

Mickey slams his hand against the wall, causing the kids to jump and even Ian to flinch. He bites back his anger, shaking his head rapidly. “I don't want to talk about this shit. I don't _want_ to talk about it to some rich fucks in-”

Ian stands in-front of him, placing his hands on his tense shoulders. “What do you mean, you said-”

Pushing against Ian's hands, Mickey puts his arms out in a rage, “I don't want to stand there in-front of room full of people and tell them my fucking life story, _that's what._ I don't want to tell them that shit!” He feels his body heating as it would before heading into the ring, he uses all of his strength not to punch the wall behind Ian.

Ian cradles his face with his soft hands, crowding his space with his chilling warmth. “Hey.” he whispers, drawing Mickey's attention back. “Hey, Listen. Stop with this bullshit, you're acting crazy. It's okay -” Mickey goes to move but Ian forces his chin over to look at him. “ _Mick-”_

Mickey bites at his lip, finally giving Ian his full attention. The soft touch of his fingers around his face and chin ground him, letting the heat wash out and the cool air to breeze through. He finally lets out a somewhat normal breath, letting his shoulders deflate. “Ian, I don't want to fucking – they don't need to know my shit --”

“Mickey.” Ian tries to calm him, placing one hand on his heaving chest. “Listen-”

“ _No!”_ Mickey yells, looking guiltily over to the kids who were stood near to the door way. Owen was clutching to his bear tightly, whilst Yevgeny just nodded – as if encouraging him _it's okay._ Mickey bites hard against his lip, the cut splitting in the force of his teeth. “They're going to look at me like some fucking idiot, Ian.”

Ian follows Mickey into the bathroom, passing him a towel for his lip. Mickey stands by the mirror, aggressively dabbing the wet towel onto the blood that poured from his mouth. Smoothly, Ian slips his arms around his waist, his chest pressed against his back, he rests his chin at the tip of his shoulder. “Mick, the kids love you. It's _for_ them. Stop being fucking nervous, you're fine.”

The brunette stops the towel against his face, looking towards Ian through the mirror. “Fine.”

“Okay, Okay.” Ian stutters, beginning to fuss all over again. He grabs the towel from Mickey's hand and chucks it into a pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the bathroom. Turning back he sneakily grabs Mickey's ass causing him to yelp, “Get some pants on, you big drama queen.”

Mickey chases Ian back into the bedroom, grabbing him from behind as he tackled him onto the bed. Owen and Yevgeny jump onto his back, helping him tickle Ian. Ian's yelping and tossing around on the mattress, trying to dodge the prodding fingers. Through his laughs, he grabs Mickey's arm, pinching it a little. “Get ready, idiot, so we can get home quicker.”

With the help of the kids, Mickey stumbles to his feet. Ian's laying on his back grinning upwards, like he did when he was the scrawny, army-boy, teenager. Mickey walks over to the wardrobe and takes out his shirt, pulling it over his white tank. “Hey kids,” he calls out, leaning down at the bottom of the bed where their feet dangled off the edge. He points, grinning, “I wanna tell you something, and it's _very_ important.”

Yevgeny reaches out and pokes his dad's nose, “I love you.”

Two seconds after, Owen squeals, rolling onto his back,“I love you!”

Snickering, Ian sits up against the bed, pulling Owen onto his lap. “I love you.”

Mickey puts his head in his hands, they _always_ know what he's going to say. “How did-”

Slapping the top of Mickey's head, Yevgeny grins, “You're so predictable, dad.”

***

“ _The Children's club of New York, would like to welcome; heavy weight champion of the world, Mickey Milkovich.”_

The crowd sat around the room of tables claps as Mickey slowly takes up the stand. He adjusts the microphone, glancing over to Ian for a slight reassurance, and clears his throat from nerves. _I fucking hate this shitty-ass things,_ Mickey thinks to himself, wanting to run at any given moment. It wasn't the amount of beady eyes watching him that bothered him, it was the _speech_ itself that made his skin crawl and his body itch.

Blowing out a breath, he fiddles with the papers laid out before him. “Right, okay.” He's unsure how to even start, he doesn't even want to read off of the script he had written himself. Instead, he runs it off his tongue, “Basically,” he mumbles, trying to see through his bust eye. “I've had a fucked up life. I mean, who doesn't growing up in South-side?”

The crowd laughs, giving him a little less pressure on what he had to say. He bows his head before looking back up towards the glowing room of eyes, “Anyway, when shit got really tough the _Children's Club_ helped my little sister.” He closes his eyes for a second, trying not to feel the pain in his gut when he wished Mandy could have been there; she had moved to Indiana a couple of months before with her foul mouthed boyfriend.

Mickey carries on, smiling a little, “They gave her a bed. Food. Clothes. All the shit that she hardly got back at home because our father was a evil dick who was constantly on probation. In and out of jail, all of that.” He looks over to Iggy and Colin briefly, both in which give him a nod. Raising his drink, he points to their table. “I mean, Jesus, I wouldn't of survived without my brothers when I was a kid, so you all better keep the fuck away from them.” Iggy's table cheers, raising their glasses and chugging them down.

Ian giggles beside him and Mickey calls out, shaking his head. “Ay, behave yourselves. A lot of rich people here tonight.” They all laugh and Mickey _tries_ to hide his smile.

Once the crowd settled from snickers, Mickey clears his throat. “Um, when I was around seventeen, maybe eighteen, some scrawny, alien-looking, wise-ass burst into my room with a tyre iron.” Mickey sneaks a look over to Ian who has his head in his hands, laughing. “He was weird looking, like really _weird._ He had bright, red hair. A coat that was too big for him. Freckles fucking _everywhere.”_ Even Mickey laughs at his own comments, he was amused still about how they met.

“ _But,”_ Mickey starts, looking past the people in the crowd and back into an eternity of memories. “we've been through a lot of shit. I mean, _a lot_ of shit. But, he still stuck with me, even when I'm being an utter dick and shut him out, beat his ass, and _even_ when I got _incarcerated_ a couple of times.” The crowd laughs, Mickey adjusts the unused papers. “I knew he was there, even when I wouldn't admit it. Goes to say, wouldn't be here without Ian.”

The crowd swoons, cheering for Ian with a round of claps. Mickey grins towards Ian who's trying to wipe his face with the sleeve of his jacket. After the applause dims, Mickey turns his serious voice on, going for the gold – in which he was asked to do in the first place. “So, instead of buying your fancy cars, dresses, watches, whatever the hell you get – just take some of that money and give us that shit.” As the crowd applaud his speech, he steps down taking a seat next to Ian who squeezes his knee with an encouraging smile.

Ian leans over, whispering in his ear, “Let's go home.”

***

After the dinner, and the speech that Mickey finally could breath about, was over, Ian and Mickey head through the main lobby of the hotel and go for the door. Cameras and reporters follow them as they took each step, asking and pleading questions that Mickey was _way_ too tired to answer. He just wanted to go _home._ Even through the crowd of paparazzi and reporters, Mickey could see the fucker that had challenged him at his fight.

Jay Jones – second to best fighter in the championships. Mickey had heard his name a couple of times; dismissed it a couple more. The guy was bad news; he rivalled up each of his fights – cocky little shit he was. He was younger than Mickey, probably faster, but by no doubts he had hardly any experience and despite being a tough contender, Mickey wasn't afraid at all.

Ian clutches to Mickey's arm, wondering why it was tense all of a sudden. His eyes briefly catch to Jay Jones; his breath caught in his throat, his worry building quickly as he realised that Mickey, too, had seen the other fighter. They stalk past Jones' table, keeping well away and quiet.

Instead, Jay Jones had other idea's. He yells through the mesh of voices crowding the lobby area, his voice raw with determination to _piss_ Mickey off. “Hey, Mickey! Why you leaving so soon?”

Mickey's eyes dart to the voice, his body already pumping with adrenaline. Ian grips tightly to his arm, pulling him faster towards the double doors that opened to outside. “Mick, come on.”

Jay walks towards them, his arms out wide. “Hey, man. I hope you're not taking everything so personally -”

Ian literally drags Mickey away, trying to take his attention away from Jay's direction. He speaks lowly, “Mick, don't let that asshole get into your head. Ignore him.” He tries his best to stop Mickey's body was heading somewhere else, but he can already feel Mickey's hands clench at his sides and his pulse quicken.

Jay grabs onto Mickey's forearm, immediately getting shoved off with a scowl. Ian's hopelessly trying to calm Mickey down, but he knows what this sort of shit happens it takes time for all the rage to leave his system. “Don't listen to him. Come on, man. Lets just get the fuck home-”

Mickey tries his best to ignore the fucker, but when Jay calls out, “Have I got to fuck your twink just to _talk_ to you? Huh?” The room doesn't go silent, but some people shut up.

Ian pleads, pulling at Mickey's arm when he feels the brunette stop in his tracks, his face all hard and eyes shadowing over with red. “Mick, let that go. Come on lets go home.” Mickey's face doesn't change except the hard clench of his jaw. “ _Mickey.”_ he whispers this time, shaking his arm but still nothing. Shit.

They both hear Jay snickering behind them. “Instead,” Jay calls mockingly, “How about I take your _twink_ then I take your belt.” A couple of people chuckle, others stick to a simple _ahhh._

Mickey can feel the heat rushing to his head, his fingers getting all twitchy as they opened and closed by his sides. _No one called Ian a fucking twink. This guy was fucking playing him._ He feels Ian's hands cradle his face, his can't take a moment to look at him through his rage.

Ian's pleading, “Mickey, look at me. Don't – don't fucking do it. Lets just go-”

Jay's big both rattles on all over again, causing Mickey to turn around. “Nah, how _about,_ I take your belt _then_ I take your twink.” The idiot is stood all smug, his hands in his suit pant pockets, his gold tooth glimmering through his twinkling smile.

“For fuck sakes, _Mickey,”_ Ian grabs Mickey's shoulders, following him. He tries to push him back towards the door, his eyes desperately trying to find Mickey's blank ones. “Just walk away. Don't let him fucking do this. Stop it – _Mickey-”_

Mickey's blood boils. No one spoke to him like that. It brought all the past memories back to the surface, pulling him under into a rage that couldn't be controlled. He felt his bones quake, his eyes rattle as if Jay was a waving red flag and Mickey was the bull.

Jay claps his hands together, “I'll take your belt, bitch-”

Before he can say another word, Mickey head butts him hard. Distantly he can hear Ian shouting his name but he shoves it off, gripping into the material of Jay's suit. The crowd cries out, some of them screaming, others calling for security. Mickey throws in a punch, feeling his knuckles crack a little, and takes a hit back.

Ian screams for Mickey before arms wrap around his waist and pull him over to the chairs at the side of the room. Iggy grips onto his body, dragging him away from the fight. “Stop it! _Mickey!”_ Ian calls out, trying to free himself from the grip. Iggy pushes him to the floor, shielding him with his body, his freehand feeling for his gun in his belt for precautions.

Mickey knees Jay in the stomach, hissing as the other man floors him quickly. His back sends a harsh pain through his nervous system as Jay climbs on top of him, pounding his fist into his cheek bone as he struggled to get one back. He can just about hear Ian's screams, “ _Mickey! Mickey!”_ but he can't even see straight with the motion of the fight. Colin and Tony step in, trying to grab Jay's shoulders and get him off his chest. One of Jay's guys starts to kick Mickey's ribs but Colin steps in and jumps onto the fuckers back.

Jay throws a jab into Mickey's face, loosing his grip slightly. Mickey turns them over, straddling Jay as he threw punch after punch into his jaw and nose. Even through the red glaze that hung over his eyes and the thumping sound in his ears, he heard Ian's voice crying out in the midst of background chatter and yelling, “ _Mickey!_ Stop! Jesus, someone fucking _stop him.”_ But again, he can't stop himself from hurling into the guy.

Suddenly, a gun shot echoes through the hotel. Colin whips out his own gun in defence but immediately gets pinned down by a member of security. The ringing of the after shock invades Mickey's ears, the sound familiar to him but urged a sudden fear through his body. The crowd's screams are like drowning children, their cries making it all seem worse. Someone grabs underneath Mickey's arms and pulls him back from Jay. Suddenly, it dawned on Mickey what the sound was.

Gunshot.

He looks over to Colin and watches the security pin his arms behind his back. He looks over to Tony who's punching off one of Jay's guys. He sees Jay being held back by another member of security. He sees one of Jay's guys slipping a gun into the waistband of his jeans. He sees – shit – he can't see Ian. Or Iggy. That's when he hears a blood curdling “ _Fuck!”_ followed by a scream.

_Ian._

Mickey's eyes dart to the direction of the scream – the image before him confusing and twisting his chest into a uncontrollable spiral. “ _Mickey?”_ Ian sounds confused. He's kneeling on the floor, his eyes looking around him aimlessly. Iggy is sat next to him as Ian's hand clutched to his left side, his frown deepening.

Panicking, Mickey stalks over. “Ian? Ian, what's the fucks going on?” He crouches before him, putting his hand over Ian's that held to his side. He didn't know what happened. What was happening? Why was Ian acting so weird? His face matches Ian's. “What's wrong? Ian?”

Ian shakes his head, hand shaking at his ribs. He looked paler than usual. “I – I don't know.”

 _Something was_ wrong.

Mickey's heart beats faster, his skin getting hot. He scans his eyes over Ian's body. The black suit was hiding everything that Ian was clutching to. His hands roam over Ian's chest, checking him over and over, “What – _Ian,_ what the hell is wrong?”

With slow movements, Ian's hand drops at Mickey's shoulder, his fingers gripping tightly as Mickey placed his hand with his against his side. Slurring his words a little, the concern building in his own voice, he mumbles, “Mick – I – I don't know.” He looks down towards his side, letting out a shaky breath. “Something happened, I – I -”

Mickey's panic increases massively. Something was _really_ wrong. He pulls back the left side of Ian's jacket, his heart stopping at the sight of his white shirt stained with red. “ _No.”_ Mickey whispers between them. People start to crowd and his keeps repeating the same thing, his eyes never leaving the spot of impact. “No. No. _No.”_

“ _Mickey-”_ Ian cries out, eyes widening, almost breathlessly.

As people crowd around, grabbing cushions, moving chairs, Mickey feels himself unable to move, unable to do anything. _No. This can't be fucking happening. Not Ian. **Not fucking Ian.**_ He looks up, his hand covering the gunshot wound that oozed blood. “What – What the fuck do I do?”

Ian grabs to Mickey's shoulder, his eyes going damp. “Mick, am I okay? _Mickey?”_

Mickey feels his own body shaking. He can't move. He doesn't _know_ what to do. Ian had been shot. _Ian_ had been shot. _No._ no. No. _Fucking **no.**_ He wraps his arms around Ian's back, leading him to the floor. He nods his head rapidly, trying helplessly to believe his own words. “You're okay. Yeah.” His hand moves a little and he can feel the blood between his fingers. “Shit – _Fuck-”_

Ian's breathing starts to quicken, his body shaking as he tried to stay up against his knees. “ _Mickey,_ what's going on? Am I going to be okay? _Mickey?”_ Ian begins to ramble in his moment of panic, his hands clutch around them as his eyes begin to droop a little.

Repeating his words, over and over, Mickey tries his best to reassure Ian. His face grows wet as streaks of tears fall from his eyes. “It's okay. It's okay. Baby, you're okay.” He whispers, trying his best to put pressure on the wound. He feels nothing but dread. “What do I do? Do I fucking lie him down? What?!”

Again, no one answers. Everyone was frantic, running around, calling numbers, trying to find help. Mickey grips to Ian's trembling body, placing his hand at the small of his back to help control his rapid breathing. Iggy strips from his jacket and lies it against the cold, tiled floor of the lobby which already has specks of Ian's blood against it. Mickey's shouting out, his voice trembling with nothing but fear.

 _No fucking way was he going to lose Ian. Not like this. Not_ _**ever.** _

Ian's growing frantic now, the realisation slowly kicking in. He pushes up against Mickey's hand, urging him to stop. “Mickey, No. No. No. I don't want to lie down. Mickey -” Iggy grabs Tony's jacket placing it under Ian's head.

Mickey lies Ian down against the floor, hand still palming the wound at his side. His whole body is shaking, his hands trying to keep calm against the blood staining his skin. Ian's trembling, his body slowly turning cold under Mickey's fingers. Ian's eyes are filled with tears as he shakes his head from side to side, mumbling something incoherent.

Leaning down, Mickey tries to keep his hand still against his side. He brushes his fingers through Ian's hair, trying to calm him. “Ian. Ian. What is it?” Ian continues to whimper, his body quivering and struggling to stay still. Mickey feels the tears dropping off his face and landing onto Ian's pale, freckled cheeks. “ _Gallagher.”_ he manages to break through.

Ian's attention suddenly turns to Mickey with the use of the old nickname. The blood is soaking through his shirt, the puddle running further around the white cotton. Ian's lip quivers, his eyes staring straight into Mickey's, “I wanna – I wanna go home.” he pleads, his voice fading.

Mickey nods his head, his own breathing rapid. “We're going to go home.”

With his body growing immensely colder, Ian repeats himself, urging. “I _wanna_ go home.”

Suddenly, Mickey loses it. He feels the panic take over. “ _We're_ going to go home. Ian -” He feels his voice tremble, his words barely making it as he checks over the wound, watching as the red spilled from the shirt and soak into the blue blazer underneath his body.

_No. This can't be happening. No._

Ian starts to cry, loudly, his voice pleading, desperate, uncontrollable. “I _wanna_ go home. I wanna go home. I wanna go _home._ ” His body lets out a shock, his chest starting to heave as he quickly gathered all the oxygen he could. He started to choke, the air stuck at his throat.

Mickey uses his freehand to caress Ian's cheek, brushing his thumb over it soothingly. He nods his head, face scrunched through tears and pain, he feels numb. His teeth chatter as the words spill out, unsure himself if they were even true, “Okay. Okay. Just – You better fucking stay with me, Ian. You can't fucking back out now. No. You gotta stay with me, man.”

With his head slightly lolling to the side, Ian starts to moan – his cries animalistic as the pain started to take over his body. His eyes started to droop. “ _No,_ fucking no, Ian!” Mickey yells, grabbing the side of his face and moving it over to look towards him. “Look at me, Gallagher, don't close your eyes. Fucking look at me.”

With his eyes still closed, Ian mumbles in a choked, clogged, slur, "You only call me that when you're scared."

"Shut up. Shit." Mickey cries out. "I should of fucking listened to you. Why _didn't_ I listen to you."

Ian tries to lift his head as he hears Mickey talking to himself but it ends up falling back down, like a bag of weights. Mickey feels his heart falling to his stomach, the dread punching him in the face, harder than any throw he had felt in his whole life. He moves both hands to Ian's face, blood smearing across his pale, soft cheeks. Mickey laughs through his tears as he spoke, “Ian, _Ian.”_ Ian's eyes flutter a little. “Look at me, man. You know how much I love your fucking eyes, just – just open them.”

The green starts to fade, lids starting to droop. Mickey's voice increases. “ _Open_ them. _Please.”_

Suddenly, Ian's breathing starts to pick up again. His chest is heaving, shirt nearly covered with the bright pink red that matched the colour of his hair. He nods repeatedly, leaning his head into the cushion of Mickey's palms. Mickey leans back a little, placing one hand back onto the bloody area that didn't stop pouring. “Shit – it's not that bad. See, it's just a fucking bullet wound.”

Ian tries to look, the strain causing him huge pain. His body is slowly weakening by the second, he places his hand back on the wound. “Mick,” he whispers, “It's – it's a lot of blood.” His voice is scared, his words barely holding on; Mickey wasn't used to this. Ian was _not_ like this.

Mickey knows it is. Shit. It wasn't a fucking leg wound, or arm wound, or even ass wound. It was in his fucking _side._ Even Mickey didn't have to be some doctor to work out that if someone didn't come and help him soon it would be fatal. Still, he tried to hold it together for Ian's sake. Everything for Ian. Everything.

He places his shivering hand on Ian's, “Hey,” Mickey brushes the bloody, printed hair away from Ian's eyes. He could not lose the love of his life. No fucking way. Ian shivers, looking up. “Hey, remember when that crazy-old lady shot my ass?” Mickey asks, trying to stop Ian from shaking from underneath his fingertips.

Ian's teeth chatter as he lets out a giggle that barely made a sound, “You were so scared.”

Usually, Mickey would disagree. But Ian had always been right. Ian was _still_ right. He feels the fear shadowing his eyes, Ian's body slowly moving further away, and no matter what Mickey would never let go, he would never _let_ Ian die. He laughs through the avalanche of tears, “Yeah. Yeah. But – but you helped me, didn't you? You got that fucker _Ned_ to take the bullets out of my ass.”

Despite shaking so much, his face turning paler, Ian managed to giggle – this time the sound was a little louder, alive. “Yeah-” he breaths, his voice almost as if it wasn't even there any-more. “I remember.”

Mickey can hear Iggy on the phone in the background, rattling off Ian's condition and the situation to get help. He focuses on Ian. Only Ian. He has no idea what to do, so he just keeps talking because that's the only thing he _could_ do. Ian's head starts to fall the side, Mickey pulls it back up towards him, hand clutching to his cheek. “Ian, Ian. Hey, look at me.” He licks at his lips, tasting the salt from the tears still spilling. “What else happened that day, huh?”

Ian flinches with pain, his eyes clenching shut. He grips onto Mickey's jacket before squeezing out a couple of words through his gritted teeth, “You – you kissed me-” his hand starts to fall all over the place and Mickey feels his bones bending, snapping, trying to keep together.

“Yeah, Yeah. I fucking did.” He guides Ian's face upwards, trying to hold him still. With their bodies so close he can feel Ian's blood soaking into his own shirt, the thumping of Ian's so fast, so rapid, that he could of mistaken it for his own.

Mickey presses his lips hard against Ian's, trying to keep them alive. “You know what?,” he beckoned, pulling away, slapping Ian's face a little to keep his eyes still open. “I'm going to kiss you everyday. _Every_ fucking morning. _Every_ night. I'm going to kiss you, _all_ the fucking time. Now you gotta stay with me, you can't fucking leave me now, Gallagher. Not now.”

Ian starts to cry uncontrollably, his whole body convulsing. He bobs his head back and forth, trying to work through the pain running through his whole body. He jolts once more. Mickey thinks it's going to be okay, maybe they could be _okay,_ he starts to smile, holding Ian's face before the redhead suddenly splutters and blood clots the inside of his mouth, choking him.

“ _No!”_ Mickey screams, he wipes his thumb over Ian's lips. “No. Shit. Ian, Ian.” He turns the other man's face to the side, helping him spit out the blood he started to choke on. When he pulls him back, Ian's face starts to grow whiter, his skin almost translucent. Mickey grips to Ian's face, pleading before him, “ _Ian,_ don't fucking close your eyes. No, don't you fucking – Ian. _Baby,_ no.”

Spluttering, the blood gurgles in Ian's throat. He tries to speak, his voice all croaky and small. “It's okay. It's okay.” He's clinging to Mickey will all his strength, his body betraying him as he felt his bones give up, his organs dying out. Mickey's trying to wipe his mouth, trying to talk, but Ian simply looks up, eyes sore, and whispers, “I'm scared. Mick. I'm scared- what if-"

All Mickey can scream is, “ _No! No! No!_ This isn't happening – you're going to be okay -”

Ian shakes his head, trying to hold it up himself. He's giving in. “I – I love you.”

Mickey can't say it. He can't say it back. If he says it then that's the end, that's giving Ian the _yes_ to letting go. He wasn't going to say it – he _couldn't_ say it, because that would mean losing Ian. He wasn't ready for that. “ _Don't_ fucking say that, Ian. Don't you fucking dare.”

The tremors in Ian's body were uncontrollable now. He let out a unearthly cry, his hand reaching up and hovering over Mickey's cheek. “I – I -” He shakes his head a little, before carrying on. He tries to catch his breath, breathing fast. “I love – I love you.”

“ _Someone fucking help!”_ Mickey yells, his voice echoing through the hotel. The room is scattering with people, but Mickey can only see Ian. He cradles his face, “It's only a little blood, baby. It's only a little bit of fucking blood-”

Ian tries to catch his breath, his body lifting and falling at each inhale. He grips to Mickey's jacket, his eyes slowly loosing life. “Yevgeny...” His voice is cold, whispering. “Owen...”

Mickey understands what Ian's doing; he _knows_ what he's trying to say, but Mickey won't let it happen. Mickey is not going to let Ian _die._ He tips Ian's chin up, trying to hold him still as he started to writhe and wriggle beneath him.

With his voice all jagged, disorientated, Ian starts to ramble; his words all muffled. “I need to – I need – I can still get home – we can still -” He tries to move from underneath Mickey. His voice is weak, his arms failing him, his legs giving up, the air in his lungs fading. He looks up to Mickey, the tears pooling around him, “I wanna go _home.”_

“You wanna go home?” Mickey repeats Ian's words. He doesn't know how to make it better, but he _needs_ to make this better. He _has_ to make this better. “Let's go home. Yeah. Ian, we will go home. We can go home.” He looks around him quickly, trying to see if any help was there. He sees an ambulances lights flash outside. He feels something. He's not entirely sure if it's hope.

Ian's voice is barely there now, the fraction of the sound so soft like an angel's feather. “I want to go home – _please, Mickey,_ take me home. Please - just-” His head is resting in the crook of Mickey's elbow, as the pain hit through, puncturing him, his frown deepens, his eyes closing.

The lights flash as help arrives, the blue and red spreading against Ian's blood smeared cheeks. Mickey holds on that little longer, shaking Ian's light, nearly nothing, body in his hands. The blood is cold against his fingers, the blood drying in the cracks of his skin. The fluorescent light dances across Ian's green iris, his pupil growing smaller and smaller. Mickey starts to shake his head, whispering continuously, "Don't go. Don't leave." into Ian's hair, kissing it.  _This was not the end. This was not how Ian was going to go._ He grips to Ian's body – this was the love of his life, his soul-mate, his fucking best-friend, he could _not_ lose him.

Mickey looks down, his heart shattering into a million pieces. Ian fucking Gallagher – a beautiful person with a beautiful heart, was barely clinging to his life, because of Mickey and his stupid fucking actions. He lets the words pour as he hears feet padding through the lobby, “Ian, Ian. I'm taking you home, I'm taking you home.”

Ian's head lolls to the side, his eyes fluttering closed as his body felt limp in his arms. Mickey felt himself panic, he wanted to hurl, he wanted to _die. “Wait,_ wait. Ian -” He shook Ian's chest, “Ian. Ian.” He became desperate, slapping his face, shaking his shoulders. “Ian, don't you fucking dare. Don't you _fucking_ leave me.” He starts to shove at his body, over and over, and he swears he can see Ian's eyes flutter at each shock. “ _Please._ Ian, fucking wake up. Wake the fuck up, you dick. Wake _up._ I love you. I love you.”

Suddenly, the weight on his lap, the cold feel of Ian's body, is taken away. The paramedics quickly grip onto his lifeless body, pulling it onto a stretcher and carried him out. Mickey swore, just as they lifted, that for a second he could feel the pulse still beating in Ian's neck. He needed him back. Ian needed to be in his arms. He knew for sure that Ian couldn't just _leave,_ he wouldn't just _give in._ “Ian!” He screams. “Ian!”

Just as quickly as they took Ian's body into the back of the ambulance, hooking him up into machines, Mickey feels handcuffs lock around his wrists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK??? I HAVE A FEW DOUBTS OF MY WRITING IN THIS CHAPTER:'(


	3. This Corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello Again! I'm enjoying writing this fic so much!!! 
> 
> The next chapter won't be for a couple of days - im so so sorry but back at college again and stuff is taking my time up - but I am still working extra hard on chapter four so please bear with me!!
> 
> Tips for heads up
> 
> 1) I'm so sorry for the angst I really am (ok im not)  
> 2) People have been known to survive Ian's wounds/conditions, and this is purely for my story so don't believe that I know all the facts, because I don't, so if there is mistakes with medical shit, just imagine that its right in the real world  
> 3) this is only the start for Mickey's character so prepare  
> 4) im not a law fanatic so don't kill me if its wrong kk  
> 5) italics near to the end of the chapter are flash backs 
> 
> ENJOY

_I wanna go home..._

Mickey had been staring at the same three cracks in the cell ceiling for the past four hours.

_I want to go home..._

He knows it must be the morning now, the light was beaming through the small window that was caged with metal bars. It was high up, near the three cracks itself, and Mickey didn't even care that he couldn't see outside. The walls, though suffocating, were shielding him.

_Take me home..._

The words don't leave his mind. Ian's voice like a broken record, over and over again, pleading and begging him to just _listen._ Why the fuck did he _not_ listen? His heart is stabbing into his skin, the broken pieces cutting through the walls his body had built to protect himself. He thinks, if he couldn't even protect Ian, how could he _possibly_ protect the kids? Or himself?

Mickey's thankful that it's quiet, despite some shouting coming from custody, because he didn't want to hear anything. He wanted silence. Even the silence was too much to bare – it left the door wide open for Ian's voice, Ian's cries, Ian's pleads and _I love you's_ and Mickey wants to bang his head off the wall because he doesn't even know whether Ian was still breathing.

Each time he closes his eyes the memories flash back, punching him in the chest, winding him. He can remember the moment that he knew something was wrong, when his heart hit the floor and the dread fled through his body. Mickey knew people would say that when something bad happens to the one you love you suddenly get this feeling of instinct that you _know_ something has happened. He got that instinct. He felt Ian's heart in his own hands, his chest soaked but a little beat still there, and Mickey wanted to feel that now. He wanted that beat to still be there.

It was all a question of waiting. _Always fucking waiting._ He had waited years, for his own fucking ass to stand up, just to get Ian, and in a split, priceless second he was taken Just. Like. That.

He wanted – no, he _needed_ to know that Ian was alright. That somehow he had won the fight against the gun-powered bullet and basked in a full recovery. Even though, Mickey knew that it was nearly impossible to survive a shot to the side, he had heard miraculous stories of people, kids even, who had gone through that trauma and still survived.

He lies there, for what felt like an eternity, not even bothering to kick a fuss about being arrested, trying to work out _how_ he let this happen. This was all his fault. Ian could be dead and it would be all down to him. His mind suddenly clicks to the kids; his precious kids that _might_ lose their dad. What would they think? Would they blame him to? Just as Mickey scrunches his face in exhaustion, and still shock of Ian, the cell door unlocks and a figure enters the four walls that he regarded now as his safe place.

The cop weakly smiles, obviously trying to be sympathetic. “Milkovich, we need to talk.”

***

Mickey finally flexes his wrists, wiggling his fingers, as the cop releases him from the cuffs. They are sat in a small interrogation room, a tape rolling, papers scattered on the desk. Mickey leans forward on his shitty, plastic chair and rests his head in his hands. All he can think about is Ian. He needed to _get_ to Ian. Anything could have happened in the last four hours.

The cop shuffles his papers against the desk, “Sir, I know this has come as an incon-”

Suddenly, Mickey feels the urge to finally speak up. He didn't want to speak to these pigs. He hated cops; from birth, apparently, and these fuckers weren't helping anything, whatsoever, _and_ they locked him up for no fucking reason. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

The second cop – who looked a little new and a little restless of Mickey's behaviour – grits his teeth before addressing Mickey in a mandatory tone, “Look, Mickey. We're not the bad guys here, we need to tell you what you might be charged with-”

“ _Charged_?” Mickey scowls, nearly spitting his words onto the table. He feels his anger brew up all over again – flashes of Ian spreading nausea through his body all over again – and he resists standing up and flipping the whole desk over. “Why the _fuck_ have you locked me up? Huh? What the _hell_ have you got to charge me with? Have you _even_ found the piece of shit that _shot_ Ian or you getting paid off like the rest of your bullshit cops in this state?” 

The two cops shift in their seats, waiting for Mickey's anger-fuelled spiel to end. Mickey slams his hand against the desk, before running his fingers roughly through his matted hair. He can still smell the blood on his fingers, he can still feel his shirt stuck to his skin, stained by Ian's blood. He can still fucking  _ hear  _ Ian's voice rambling, chattering, trying to get him to  _ just go home.  _

The first cop clears his throat, flipping a sheet of paper over. “Charges include; defendant using and threatening unlawful violence towards another and his conduct is such as would cause a person of reasonable firmness present at the scene to fear for his personal safety.” He takes a glance to Mickey, for a split second, noticing him shaking his head. Taking a breath, he continues, “Defendant is guilty of Affray and unlawful assault among another member of society, in a public area that threatens the personal safety of those in that area.” 

Mickey feels sick. He's going to hurl. He had heard charges before; hell, he'd been in more interrogation rooms than boxing rings. He shakes his head, mumbling  _ no  _ under his breath, trying to rid of the cops stupid, fucking voice and replace it with Ian's breathing. He didn't care if he got locked up, he didn't care if the fucker who shot Ian shot him too, he just needed Ian to be okay. He just needed his kids to be okay, and not to worry that they might not see their father again. 

After all, Mickey believed in karma. It was all his fault, Ian getting shot, and he needed to be punished. 

The cop speaks up, his voice a little more hopeful. Mickey just wanted to punch him in throat. “Luckily for you, Mickey, we  _ don't  _ get paid off here at this station. Your conviction does not require imprisonment  _ but  _ we include a fine of...” he lifts the paper, eyes widening, “fifteen thousand dollars.” 

To be honest, Mickey didn't even flinch at the sum. He didn't care for money, not now. He just nodded his head, cracking each knuckle at each blip of Ian's pale, blood smeared face that pondered in his mind. He clenches his eyes shut, trying to block it out, but it got worse; the darkness was filled with images of Ian's shivering body, Ian's green eyes loosing colour, his white shirt covered in red. His own chest burns, his eyes sticking together, mouth dry and throat clogged. 

The second cop – Mickey doesn't care for his name – shuffles all the papers from the table into a pile in the middle. He clicks the tape off and looks over to Mickey, his eyes clouded with sympathy and pity. “Man, I'm sorry for what happened. But, we need to make this as simple and easy as possible.” Mickey's ready to tell him to go fuck himself. “We need an eye witness to identify the shooter at the scene.” 

Mickey feels numb. He needs to go. He needs to see Ian. He needs to go  _ home.  _

The cop stands up, tapping the top of the desk. “No one's talking. Nobody wants to be involved. Do you remember anything? Anyone acting strange? Or anyone that would do this to Ian?” 

Finally opening his eyes, Mickey nearly hurls when he sees the red colour still staining in-between his fingers. He squints, trying to find a clock. He needed the time. He needed to see Ian. He needed him to be okay. He feels the tears trapped in his eyes, burning away at his pupil. Lowly, he tries to stay calm as he asks, “What time is it?” 

The second glances at his watch and back over to Mickey. “6 am. I know it's been a long night, but we've got to ask these questions-” 

_ Long night? Long fucking night?  _ Mickey wants to lunge at the words, smash them up, set fire to them and stamp on the remains. It hadn't been a  _ long  _ night; it had been hell. 

He feels himself drift, loosing his sanity. “Fiona – Fiona normally leaves at five -” He's chattering away, cutting off the officer as his mind goes into a torpedo. He can't feel his heart beat, he's not sure whether he even has one anymore. “I just – I – I can't find my phone.” He taps his pockets, to find nothing – he had forgotten that being arrested included belongings stripped from you. 

“Mickey we need another moment of your- ” The cop tries to speak, but Mickey cuts him off again. 

Mickey rubs harshly into his eyes, squinting down towards his stained hands. “Can I have my phone?” He needed his phone. He  _ needed  _ something to let him know that Ian might be alright. 

The officer rubs his hands together, “Mickey, we arrested one of your crew members. He said he was one of your security details. Unfortunately, he didn't have a permit for-” 

The sentence becomes muffled. The ringing sound, that Mickey would usually look for, played through his ears, almost deafening him. He looks around – as if to go ask Ian what to do – but he was met with nothing but air with a brick wall behind it. He squints again, biting at his nails as he spoke, almost to himself. “My sons wake up at six – Ian usually gets them up for school. He should be making their lunches right now. Yev doesn't like ham, so Ian gives him cheese-” 

Through Mickey's ramblings, the two cops exchange a concerned glance. They both nod and walk around the desk to where Mickey was close to ripping his hair out. “Okay. Okay. Mickey, why don't we do this instead.” He pulls out his card, number and name printed on it. “You take this. If you remember anything, anything that could help us catch this guy, just give us a call.” One of them pats his back, as if to say  _ it will be okay.  _

How could it be okay? How could any of this be  _ okay? _

***

Mickey knows he shouldn't be driving in his state. His ribs are cracked, his nose is bleeding still, his shirt and hands are covered in Ian's dried blood, and he can't see or hear a god-damn thing. It's like he's underwater, trying to push through to get to the surface to reach the oxygen just above the top, but the pressure of the water is pushing him down, pinning him into the pit of darkness which would eventually swallow him whole. Everything was muffled, the pressure hitting against his ears. 

Mickey could see himself sitting in back in that cell with the speed he was driving at. He was going to the first place he thought Ian would be – well, hoped he would be. He took the back streets, nearly hitting into curbs, sometimes even people, but his dodgy, uncoordinated driving was not playing on his mind – getting to the damn hospital was his priority, with or without a fully functioning body. 

His hands are tight against the wheel, his feet hammering into the peddle as the car sped through the main road and off towards the hospital. Seeing the parking-lot, Mickey let grits his teeth as he quickly swerves in before another car. He finds a parking spot and pulls the car to a quick halt. Looking towards the door he feels his insides crumble – for a second, he believed that couldn't walk, that his legs just stopped working. He tried to wiggle his toes but he felt nothing but dread. He knew they could work, but they just wouldn't  _ move.  _

Closing his eyes, he lets a tear spring free as he lets out a long exhale. “Come on.” His hands grip the wheel, shaking it a little. “Come the fuck on, Mickey.” He repeats his self-encouragements, trying to get himself to move. There was  _ nothing  _ that scared Mickey – he learned to channel fear, to push it away – but  _ this  _ possibility that he would never hear Ian again, never see him or that idiotic smirk, was something he could never channel. It was the fear you had when you  _ believed  _ there was monster underneath the bed, it was the fear you feel when you jump out of a deep sleep where you were falling and falling, trying helplessly to get a grip of something real. 

Suddenly, Mickey turns to his anger. He hits against the wheel aggressively, screaming at the top of his lungs. The car shakes as his body rocks back and forth hitting against the steering wheel. The cuts on his knuckles start to scratch open, specks of blood dripping down his fist. He hits and hits, punching the dashboard and hitting his body against the back of his seat. “Mother fucker! Mother fucker! Fucking -” Finally he stops. 

It's silent. Mickey can't breathe. He doesn't feel the pain in his fists or the ache in his back. He feels nothing. Numb. Just like the second he noticed that something was wrong with Ian. 

He steps out the car, slamming the door shut but not really hearing it click. He doesn't bother locking it as he walks towards the main, revolving doors. His heart is beating faster, his hands beginning to shake at his sides and he immediately wants to hurl. He remembers the last time he had to walk through these doors; only a couple of years earlier. Ian had took a turn for the worst; stopped taking his pills, stayed in bed for two weeks, and then tried to end it all. Mickey was the one that found him, curled up with blood all over his wrists in the tub. He remembers the lost, dead look in Ian's eyes as he cradled his body, trying helplessly to soak up the blood with a couple of lousy hand towels, and he saw that look just hours before. His whole body shuddered at the thought.

Mickey finds himself at the main desk where a nurse was frantically scanning through papers, picking up the phone and trying to calm down people in the waiting area. Mickey glanced around him and saw a couple of people; an old man coughing, spluttering everywhere. Two teenagers whispering as one of their hands swelled in a bandage. A tall, lanky man clenching his eyes shut in pain as his left hand gripped to his calf. Mickey felt sick. He fucking hated these places. 

The nurse looks up, asking, “Can I help you, sir?” 

Suddenly, he's lost for words. He doesn't even know if Ian would even be there. No one had told him anything, his phone was dead, the police knew jack-shit. Lost was not even the beginning of what Mickey was feeling. Rubbing a rough hand down his face, Mickey answers, “Yeah. Uh, I'm looking for Ian Gallagher -” 

The nurse glances towards his blood soaked shirt, narrowing her eyes a little, before turning to her computer. “Ian Gallagher?” She asks again, typing in the name more than once. 

Then Mickey realised. This wasn't like those days in south-side when Ian would hurt himself and they would head to the nearest hospital to get him before he screamed the place down. Ian wasn't a  _ Gallagher  _ any-more, Ian was Mickey's. Mickey slaps his hand on the desk, causing the nurse to flinch, “No. No. I mean, his name is Ian Milkovich. I'm his – I'm his husband. Is he here?” 

Nodding her head, she types at rapid speed. The computer makes a noise and she looks up with a glaze over her eyes. No. No. No. This was not happening. “Sir -” 

Mickey felt his legs wobble, the bile in his throat forcing itself to come up. He shook his head, running his hand through his hair until he tugged it hard enough to try and forget. “No. Don't fucking tell me he isn't here – don't fucking do  _ that.”  _ The last words come out as a whisper, a gentle plead that he hoped would work. 

The nurse stands up from her chair and hesitates to put her hand over Mickey's. “Sir, it's okay.” 

He shakes his head from side to side, biting down into his cut lip. “No. No. It's not fucking okay!” Mickey was seriously sick of people saying that. It wasn't okay. If it was okay he wouldn't be standing in a hospital demanding a nurse to tell him whether or not the love of his life was alive and breathing and still  _ there.  _

“Sir. Calm down.” The nurse orders this time, placing her hand back onto his. “Ian  _ is  _ here. He's been in the theatre for the last hour. I assume that you know him. You can't see him until tomorrow – due to overnight testing and medical procedures. When they took him in he had lost a lot of blood and the wound was fatal, the bullet had punctured into his liver and massively weakened the rest of his organs. The doctors put him into theatre straight away – they've removed the bullet but Ian has huge amounts of internal bleeding. They are doing everything they can.” 

Mickey gips. His whole body goes into shock. He feels the air in his lungs trapped in his throat, his body rejecting a dose of oxygen. His heart has stopped, the fast beat now nothing in his chest. With legs wobbling like crazy Mickey caught himself on the desk, his hands gripping to the edge. He shakes his head, over and over. He can't stop. He's hyperventilating. “Internal – Internal bleeding, what – what the fuck is that?” 

He's panicking. He can't stop. The shaking in his hands spread all over, the darkness pulling over his eyes. The tunnel getting further and further away and the light was barely visible any-more. There was too much to take in. He needed to see Ian  _ now.  _ Not tomorrow. 

The nurse clears her throat, looking afraid to even explain. Instead of answering his question, she leans forward, the wrinkles on her forehead crinkling a little. “I know there's a slim chance that he'll make it,” she says lowly, squeezing his shaking fingers, “but I have a feeling that he'll be okay.” 

That was it. Mickey shoved himself away from the desk, yelling, “Fuck this!” He stormed through the waiting area, not bothering to listen to the nurse call after him, he pushed through the double doors into the intensive care ward and scanned each room. His mind was moving faster than his legs, the world around him in slow-motion, isolating him. He saw Owen before Owen saw him.

The redheaded little boy was sat crossed legged on the floor, playing with a toy car against the hard tile. His eyes were all red and puffy and his hair was all tussled and messy. Mickey stopped in his tracks. He watched as his little boy played with his car – the way the wheels ran along the tile, the way Owen made little sound effects each time the car came to a halt. Mickey watched and suddenly he forgot how to breathe. Not even a moment later, Fiona ran over to him, her arms out wide her face covered in last-nights make up, smudged across her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around him, embracing him tightly with her face in his neck. Mickey didn't move, he couldn't do it. Frozen in time, trying to find something to hold on. That grip was usually Ian. It had always been Ian. 

Now he was free-falling. Fast. 

When Mickey got punched in the ring it would make his mind fuzzy, it would make the crowd disappear into nothing but muffled voices. Now, Fiona's voice was nothing but muffled words, as if Mickey was in a fish tank and she was poking the glass. Her mouth was moving but the words didn't make sense. Suddenly, her hands are around his face, shaking him a little. 

Her voice starts to come through. “Mickey. Hey, Mickey.” 

Mickey looks down at his shirt, the memory coming back, the nurses words invading his ears.  _ Slim chance. Loss of blood. Internal bleeding. Ian.  _ He finally looks up and Fiona is repeating herself, her hands now at his shoulders, shaking him concernedly. The noise is slowly coming back, but a slow pace. He finally speaks, but it's nothing but begging. “Where is he?” 

A tear falls down Fiona's cheek. She frowns, squeezing his shoulders. “Mick, he's-” 

Pushing past her, he walks over to the waiting room where the rest of the Gallagher's were and the kids; Yevgeny was curled up in a chair, his face shaking as he tried to hold it in. Lip was on the phone, yelling and tugging hard on his hair. Carl had his head in his hands, bouncing his left leg against the bottom of the chair. Debbie was talking to one of the nurses, her hair pulled back and her pale face now red from crying. Liam is asleep on one of the waiting room chairs, a small ratty blanket up to his chin. Owen was playing with his toy car, looking over to Mickey with a shattered look. Mickey gripped the back of his neck, demanding. “I don't give a shit, I need to see him.” 

Fiona rushed over, pulling him around, “You can't, he's-” 

Mickey grabbed onto her shoulders, shaking her. “I  _ need  _ to fucking see him.” 

Everyone started to look up, all watching as Mickey's movements started to get restless. His hands are tight around Fiona's shoulders, urging her to just let him get Ian back. He feels as if they are all against him – they all blame him. They must do. Lip steps over, hanging up his call, and places a firm hand at the top of Mickey's tense arm. “Mickey, just calm down, aright-” 

In a rage, Mickey pushes Lip away from him, turning around. “Get the fuck off me!” Really, he's not even sure what he's doing himself, but he just needs to find Ian, just to see him. He knows that he's in theatre but he still  _ needs  _ to hold him, touch him. “Ian?!” He yells, banging his hands against each room. 

Fiona chases after him, trying to stop him. “Mickey, stop.  _ Please.”  _

She's crying now. Lip is trying to stop him. The rest of the Gallagher's perk up, watching and flinching with each bang of Mickey's fist against the walls and the glass. Yevgeny jumps up from his seat, “Dad! Daddy! Stop-” Lip grabs him around his waist, pulling him back. 

Mickey yelling and kicking over tables, screaming Ian's name. “Where the fuck is he?! Ian?!” As the rage fires up worse, thriving through his bones, he suddenly feels his whole chest lose its air. His body falls numb, his legs failing to work and he falls to his knees. He hits his fists against the floor, over and over, his knuckles beginning to bleed again. “I need to fucking see him.” He whispers to himself, trying to breathe. 

Fiona can't believe what she's seeing. She heard about Ian and rushed as fast as she could to get there. Her heart was shattered to pieces, torn, and she was petrified that Ian might not make it. Mickey was the strongest of them all; he had always been the muscle, the strength, and the voice that pushed through everything, but now – he was just a frail, fragile little boy, his head in his hands and his body trembling. She looked around at each Gallagher, taking in the two boys who so desperately wanted to help their father, and crouched down towards Mickey. Wiping her eyes – which didn't help at all, they were never stopping – she placed her hand on the back of his neck. 

She knew that Mickey loved Ian – God, she knew from the moment he went out and looked for him when he had ran away to that club in Boys-town. She knew when Mickey had come out to his dad in-front of a bar full of people. She knew when Mickey stuck by Ian through his disorder, staying with him even when Ian had run away with Monica and tried to end it. It broke her heart – her little brother was dying and Mickey – well, Mickey was too. 

Mickey started to sob into his hands and it slowly started to turn into wails. None of them had ever seen Mickey like this, ever. Fiona brought her arms around him and pulled him tight against her chest, rocking them back and forth as he let out all the angered and frightened emotions.

***

The morning after a fight, Mickey usually felt like death; his back would ache, his eyes would be clammed shut, his mouth would be rotting with dry blood, and his hands would be cut to pieces. Usually, that shit disappears when he turns over and sees Ian sprawled out next to him, the sheets wrapped around his waist, his hair sprayed against the pillow and falling over his eyes, his mouth slightly a gape with a small dribble of drool against his chin. That made the pain go away. When Mickey wakes up, he's in Fiona's lap, and isn't the same. The feeling isn't there. The pain is. 

His eyes are burning and all puffy from breaking down and his body is still having after shocks from the panic attack he had whilst rocking back and forth in Fiona's arms. His eyes flutter open and Fiona is wide awake, her eyes glued to the nurses in the corner who were speaking to Lip. Mickey doesn't give moving a thought – he just wants to lie there and wait until they let him see Ian. He didn't believe in slim chances, sure – he had enough of them – but this time he  _ knew  _ Ian would be okay. He had to know that. 

Fiona must feel him shifting uncomfortably on her lap and looks down. Her voice is all croaky, like the inside had been cut like glass, when she speaks, “Mick, why don't you take the kids home. They need some rest.” She nods her head over to Yev and Owen, who are both curled at Liam's side, their heads leaning against his arm as their eyes droop with tiredness. 

Mickey shakes his head. “I'm not leaving until they let me see him.” 

Lip over-hears and steps away from the nurses. He kneels by Mickey's face – for once not being an asshole – and speaks quietly. “She's right, man. They need to go home. This place isn't good for them. Come back tomorrow when they let us see him,”  _ If they let us see him, he might not even make it,  _ Mickey thinks. “you need some rest too. It's been a long fucking day. Get cleaned up.” 

Mickey wants to scream no. He wants to rampage around the hospital to find Ian, but when he looks over to his sons – both of them looking back, their eyes all red and faces all blotchy – he knows he needs to do what Lip says, even if it hurts to leave the place Ian was in. He stares towards Lip, biting at his lip. “Fine.” He mutters, still a little hesitant. He moves off Fiona's lap and walks over to his kids. 

Yevgeny is the first to open his eyes, his face is scarred with fear – and whilst Owen was oblivious to what was going on, confused by his surroundings – Yev knew what was going on. He knew  _ exactly  _ what was going on, and he had a shadow over his eyes, blocking Mickey out. Mickey nods towards Liam – out of all the Gallagher's, (except Ian, of course) Liam was by far his favourite – and opens his arms towards Yev. 

With tears in his eyes, Yev shakes his head. He steps up off the chair and goes to grab his coat from the empty chair in the corner of the waiting room. Mickey ducks his head, taking a breath, he knew that all of it wouldn't be easy on the kids, but it wasn't like Yevgeny to just blank him out. Liam gives him a weak smile, as pulls Owen from his side and hands him over to Mickey. 

Owen snuggles himself sleepily into Mickey's shoulder, his arm hooking around his neck. Mickey finally feels like he can breathe with Owen in his arms; he looked everything like Ian, the hair, the pale skin, the lanky frame – some people say they hate reminders like that, but Mickey was nothing but grateful. Yevgeny stands at his side, biting at his nails quietly as Mickey nodded towards all the Gallagher's. If anything, he wished his sister was there; she would teach him a few things, like not to smash up the hospital that's trying to save your husbands life. 

Mickey didn't want to leave. He didn't want that chance of losing Ian all over again. He got into the car anyway, turning the ignition on and praying silently that those doctors were as good as they made out to be. 

***

The Jack Daniels bottle is nearly empty – the last couple of drops move around at the bottom as Mickey shakes the bottle in his hand. He had come back home less than three hours back – he had put Owen with Yevgeny upstairs to sleep; he could still hear them talking, whispering, through the paper thin walls. He gets up and plants the bottle on the side table. He adjusts his suit – that he still hasn't changed out of – it's covered in blood, its starting to smell, and Mickey feels as if its stuck to his body, claiming its place. 

Rubbing his eyes, he stumbles down the hall to Yevgeny's room. The house is horribly quiet. He hates it. When he gets to the open door of his son's bedroom, he peers in; Owen is curled up against Yevgeny, his bear tucked under his arm. Yev, however, is wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. With the light from the hall, Mickey can clearly see the tears pooling in his eyes. He feels his own welling up, his chest starting to thump faster like it did back at the hospital. 

Mickey stutters to say something, he just needs Yev to speak to him. “Uh, Yev, are you hungry or-” he rubs a hand at the back of his head, the nausea swirling around his system. “I can cook you some shit up, or-” 

Yev shakes his head, looking blankly over to Mickey. “No.” 

It's hard to take in. Yev hadn't said a word since they left the hospital. Mickey feels himself wanting to fall into the cracks that had opened up, but he held his balance with a hand against the door frame. His mind flashes back to Ian laying against the floor, his eyes broken, his hands gripping tightly against Mickey's jacket. He taps his head against the wooden frame, letting out a needed exhale, “Okay. Okay.” He switches the lamp off that stood in the corner of the room. 

When he goes to leave, he hears Yev shift in his bed. His voice is all quiet, hurt hanging off the edges as he spoke. “Dad usually leaves it on.” 

Mickey feels his whole body shudder at the mention of Ian. The alcohol is running through his veins, clasping him tight, and all he wanted to do was smash the whole place up. He looks over to his son, giving him a weak smile and apology, his breath breaking as he took a step in the room and switched the lamp back on. “Okay, sorry little man.” 

He leaves the room, touching the wooden frame as he left. He rubs at his eyes, trying to rid of the memories that continued to flash before him. As he reaches near to his and Ian's room, he hears Yev call out, “Daddy?” 

Stopping in the hall, Mickey turns back, facing the open door to the room. “Yeah, little man?” 

For a moment, there's just silence. For once the house had no sound. Mickey hears Yev shifting in his bed, the duvet rustling a little, and for a second Mickey thought Yev was going to come to him, that his son would run down the hall and wrap his arms around his waist, but all he heard was Yev yell back, his own voice breaking, “It doesn't matter.” 

Mickey feels himself sink. Everything was falling apart and now Yevgeny was even pushing him away. This was  _ all  _ his fault. If he just fucking  _ listened  _ then Ian would be there. Ian would have never been shot, never been in hospital nearly dying, he would be there. He would be  _ home.  _ Mickey repeats that word over and over in his head, only Ian's voice coming through. He walks towards the door of their bedroom and sinks to the floor, letting his legs go dead in-front of him. 

He leans his head against the wall, looking up at the bright light on the ceiling. It started to flicker, and he feels the need to fix it. Either that or tear it out of its wires. Mickey lets out a shaky breath, his hands starting to shake all over again; he knows it's coming, he knows his whole body will go into shock and he won't be able to control it.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he checks his messages. Still no news. Still no calls. Nothing. When he locks the screen he sees the corny picture Ian had set for his background; Ian with a cheeky-ass grin, his hair all over the place, the skin at the side of his eyes crinkling. 

That's when Mickey started to cry. That's when he started to wail, calling out Ian's name. 

***

He's laying on his side, staring. That's all he can do; stare. He's facing Ian's pillow, his hand gripping to the empty sheets that usually would have Ian against them. His tears are falling over his nose and soaking into the material of the pillow case, forming a small puddle by his ear. In some part of his mind, Mickey hopes that he could have some strange magical powers through staring, and that if he stared hard enough Ian would reappear where he belonged. 

He didn't. 

The alcohol had worn off by now; it was nothing but a dull sickness settling in his stomach. The bloody suit was balled up in the corner, with the rest of the trashed room. In true Milkovich fashion, he had ruined the room completely, tipping it all upside down. Each kick, hit, yell, at each flash of memory of Ian slowly fading in his arms. Now he lay in the midst of it all, the bed slightly moved, but the pillow still smelling of Ian. 

He's wrapped up in Ian's t-shirt – the one with the strange picture of a animal on it. A crow, Mickey thinks it is. How convenient. It smells like Ian and it hugs his body warmly, as if to work as a substitute for Ian's arms. Mickey misses Ian around him, the human heater with long-ass limbs and a loud snore that could wake the neighbours. Thinking about it, Mickey curls his own arms around his waist, burying his nose into the scent of the shirt. 

Suddenly, he feels the bed vibrate. The light from his phone screen shone across the whole room – the dark walls now bright. Mickey scrambles across the bed to find it, grabbing it as soon as his fingers caught the smooth edge. It's Lip. He answers quickly, not giving Lip any time to speak. “What's happened? Is he okay? Can we see him yet?” 

Lip lets out a sigh, “Mickey, right you've got to listen to me-” 

Mickey can feel it coming. He's not prepared, he can't do this.

There's whispering on the other line, as if someone was telling Lip was to say. Lip speaks clearly down the phone, noticing Mickey's absence of speech. “They finished the operation and took out the bullet from Ian's side.” 

There was always a  _ but.  _ Mickey was dreading what that  _ but  _ might be. 

“ _ But,”  _ Lip starts, letting out an eerie breath, “Ian went into Cardiac arrest.” 

Mickey felt his world falling to pieces, the walls, the buildings they built together – those memories, they were shattering. He sat frozen, his breath quickening as Lip spoke down the line. The words were there, he could hear them, but he wasn't really listening. He was waiting for Lip to say the one thing that he never wanted to hear. 

“They managed to save him, Mick, but they realised that he can't breathe on his own just yet.” 

Growing confused, Mickey turns his head from side to side, running his hand back and forth across his face. “What – what, what the fuck are you saying?” 

Lip takes a moment to speak. “In order to keep him alive they had to put him on life support.” 

That's it. Mickey's up out of bed, he's kicking at the side-table, chucking pictures off the wall. He grabs the phone, his cries causing his voice to become a little high-pitched. “Life – Life support?” He almost whispers, “Isn't that the one where they pull the fucking plug at the end? No. He ain't going on that shit, he can  _ breathe.  _ I know he can.” 

“Mick.” Lip demands, sighing down the phone. Mickey can see him pinching the bridge of his nose or something that helps him get through it. Lip clears his throat a little, this time sounding worn, his tone hinted with wetly. “His body is giving in. He needs life support, I ain't letting him give in.” 

Mickey lets out a frustrated groan. He doesn't trust those doctors, they could pull the plug any minute and say it was all for the better and Ian would be in a better place. Mickey couldn't let that happen – Ian was strong, he could do it. “If they pull the fucking plug-” 

The phone breaks a little, but Lip's voice is loud. “Mickey, they can't do that without your consent. They're doctors, they know what they are doing.” 

Lip was trying, Mickey knew that, but he couldn't lose Ian again. “I don't fucking trust them.” 

“I don't give a shit if you trust them or not, Mickey.” Lip nearly yells down the phone. “He might be your husband but he's my little brother too. I'm not risking him fucking dying because you can't trust one doctor – who, may I add, saved his life. I know this shit is hard for you-” 

Mickey bursts, his voice growing louder and louder. “Hard?  _ Hard?”  _ he repeats Lip's words back. “You have no fucking idea. He nearly fucking died in my arms. Now tell me,  _ Phillip _ , do you have  _ any  _ idea how it fucking feels to have the love of your life nearly die in your arms, huh?” Lip stays quiet, but Mickey carries on. “Well, speak the fuck up? Do you?”

There's a huge rustle against the line – as if someone ripped the phone from Lip's hands – and it's replaced with a familiar voice. “Mickey, hey, it's Debbie.” Her voice was similar to Ian's, the same drift, it makes Mickey want to hurl – or cry – probably both. 

Mickey's head is all over the place; his eyes are all blurry, his body is stumbling against his footing on the floor. “What?” He snaps, pulling Ian's pillow from its place and up to his chest. 

Debbie lets out a deep breath, her voice stern. How she stayed so calm was beyond Mickey, he hadn't had one calm minute since the moment Ian left his arms. “Right, you're going to shut the hell up and listen to me. Ian is going on that life support machine, and that's that.” Mickey goes to interrupt but she cuts him off, “He has an 87% chance of surviving this, Mickey, and if life support is going to help him stay strong a little longer we are going to damn-fucking-well use it.” She takes a breath. “Now, calm the fuck down and get some rest. You have two kids with you, okay, think about them.” 

Then Mickey hangs up, Debbie's voice evaporating into the silent air. The room starts spinning and Mickey can't see. His breath is all caught up in his throat, his fingers twitching and in need of more alcohol to knock him out. He can't do this. This was all his fault. 

He slides to the floor, beside the bed and leans over the edge, pressing his face into the mattress. He grips to Ian's pillow in his hand, clenching and letting go each time he screamed into the sheets. The memories flashed back in his mind like a video on rewind. 

_ Ian's gripping tightly at his shoulder, his eyes looking over to him, filled with tears. “Mick, am I okay? Mickey?”  _

_ His own body is shaking, he feels it all over. He can't move his legs, they won't move. He doesn't know how to fix it, he doesn't know how to help him. How could he not know? He wraps his arms around Ian's back, and helps him over to the floor. He wants it to be okay. Ian has to be okay. He lies, why the fuck did he lie? “You're okay. Yeah.” he grabs Ian's side. It's so bloody. There's so much blood it soaks his whole hand. “Shit-fuck-”  _

Mickey screams again – the sound muffled in the sheets of the bed. His hand grips to the pillow, his nails digging into the rough material.  _ It's all his fault.  _

_His tears are falling onto Ian's face, mixing with the wetness already there. His cheeks are pale, they still have the dotted freckles, but they are too pale. He can feel his voice break, the tiny fragments left forming, “Gallagher.” he knew it would get Ian to look at him._

_Ian looks at him, his eyes lightened with fear, his lips quivering. He can feel the blood soaking deeper into Ian's shirt, and there's so much of it. Too much. Ian starts pleading, his words desperate, “I wanna – I wanna go home.” He's looking right at Mickey and he doesn't blink once, his face is all screwed up in pain and he's holding onto Mickey for dear life._

Mickey screams louder, pressing his face further into the mattress. His chest is burning, his back bent and cramped up. He feels his knees giving way but he can't stop. Even when he hears his son calling out to him from behind the locked door, he can't move. He just carries on screaming. 

_He can hear Ian's voice – it's nearly nothing but air. It's so small, soft, like the life was literally being sucked out of him. Mickey feels himself crumble. This couldn't happen. Ian's whole body is trembling, covered in red, and he's whispering now, “I want to go home – please, Mickey, take me home. Please just-” and Mickey pulls him against his chest, cradling him, and then his eyes start to close and the panic hits. Mickey feels his whole world fall apart in his arms._

Mickey can hear the banging on the door – he can't move. He screams into the sheets over and over, replaying each moment. This was all his fault. This shouldn't have happened. When he lifts his head, the yelling from behind the door is louder, ' _Daddy! Open the door!",_  he grabs the near-empty bottle of Jacks and finishes it.

 


	4. The Rest Of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry for the late update but college have been driving me insane! 
> 
> Anyway, here's your chapter tips - 
> 
> 1) So Mickey is trying to get it together but is getting worse  
> 2) Through these chapters I am going through days not weeks so yeah  
> 3) Iggy was arrested, just like Mickey, but he was not charged with anything as he was not proven to be involved with the shooting but just happened to be in the area  
> 4) More things are going to happen soon - including stuff with Mickey fighting so hold on tight - and including Ian's condition, so there will be quite a few hospital scenes including the Gallaghers - and later on..... MANDY  
> 5) sorry for making you sad  
> 6) not really I love writing angst  
> 7) ok I am  
> 8) remember, in the end everything will be ok so don't kill me through this

The first thing Mickey feels is water. It's dripping down his face and into the collar of Ian's shirt. It's warm, like it had been comforted and simmered slowly to fit against his sore skin. There's a rough sensation against the top of his eye, dabbing and tapping against his skin in soft beats. He tries to swerve his head away, not yet opening his eyes, but a cold hand stops the side of his face from moving. It feels almost familiar. It felt as if he had just stepped out of the ring and Ian was over fussing about his injuries, trying to clean every cut until the blood was smothered all over the towel. Mickey's neck cramps up as he tries to move, the name leaving his mouth like vomit, he couldn't control it, “ _Ian.”_

The dabbing stops for just a second but continues just before he calls out again. “ _Ian.”_ He could be hallucinating, dreaming even, because he sure did drink enough of the alcohol from the fridge. He tries to move his head again but the cold hand is faster, catching him in his struggle, keeping him firm in his place. Mickey wants to say something but the water is dripping over his lips, sloppily, and he couldn't risk choking on his own spit. 

The silence around him is suddenly cracked by a small, innocent voice. “Dad?”

Mickey's eyes flutter open, his vision blurry and disorientated. The small lamp in the corner of the bedroom lit up the dark walls and cast a shadow against the person in-front of him. He squints, trying to focus his eyes on who it was. It wasn't Ian. It was too small to be Ian. The small, now red, towel comes back to his face, rubbing against the cut he thought didn't exist.

“Hey, Daddy.” It was Yev. Of course it was Yev, who else would it be. Mickey's eyes finally adjust to his son, who stood in his slightly baggy pyjamas, a long t-shirt that Mickey guessed was Ian's old hand-out, with his hair all stuck up and tussled. Beside him stood Owen, holding a bowl of water, a worried expression on his face as he watched his brother wipe the towel across Mickey's eye.

Trying to move, Mickey realises that he's pressed back against the side of the bed. Slowly, he looks around the trashed room and tried to remember what the hell happened. The door was propped open, despite him remembering himself lock it earlier. He shakes his head, lifting his hand towards his face. “What – what happened?”

Yev bites his lip, dipping the towel into the small bowel Owen was holding. “You fell, dad. You hit your head off the table.” He nods over to the small side-table that held nothing but the lid of his bottle of Jacks. His heart drops to his stomach – what the fuck was he thinking? He looks back over to his sons, his eyes starting to tear up at the sight of them looking after him.  _It should be the other way around,_ he thinks, pulling the small towel away from his face and grabbing onto Yev's hand. 

Mickey swallows harshly, his throat dry. “How did you even get in?” He knows that shouldn't be a question to ask his son, but he was generally confused on how the two of them could crack a lock and magically get into the room, even with a chair hitched up against it.

Owen quickly places the bowl of dirty water onto the floor, running over to the door and picking something up by the bottom of it. When he gets back, he lifts Mickey's free-hand off the floor and places a small hair-grip into his palm. “Yevvy used this to get in, Daddy. We heard you screaming and we thought you hurt yourself so we came but the door wouldn't open.”

Gob-smacked by his son's locksmith skills, Mickey flips the grip over in his palm. “Jesus.” The guilt washed over him, his selfishness staring him straight back in the face. He tries not to well up but he feels himself growing more guilty. Yev pulls his hand from Mickey's, giving him a weak smile before picking up the bowl Owen had abandoned and walked towards the bathroom. Owen crawls into Mickey's lap, wrapping his hands around his middle. Mickey sighs, kissing the top of his head as reality bouldered into his skin. He bites back the tears as his arms tighten around Owen, his breath all shaky and barely keeping back the emotions that threatened to burst. 

_It shouldn't be like this._

Quietly, Yevgeny walks back into the room, beginning to pick up objects that had been thrown around the room, like he's trying to pick up the pieces to Mickey's heart. He bins the empty bottle of Jacks, closes his eyes as he shifted the blood-stained shirt from the corner, and lifts the broken picture frame from the floor. It's a picture of all of them; the year before when they had taken a vacation to see Mandy down in Indiana. Mickey watched carefully, his heart slowly breaking all over again, as his son blinked his eyes shut, a tear falling down his left cheek. “Yev?” He calls out, gulping back his own tears.

The dark-haired boy just looks; he stares at Mickey with a pain in his eyes and a shake in his hands, fingers clutching around the picture as if desperate to go back. Instead of answering, he places the frame onto the side-table, letting out a shaky breath. He goes to leave the room but suddenly he leaps towards Mickey, looping his arms tightly around his neck. Mickey jolts a little, his whole body warming up in the embrace. He can hear Yev sobbing into his shoulder, his t-shirt now getting wet. His hand trembled with Yev's shaking back, his other clutching to Owen as he snuggled deeper into his chest, his face meshed into the fabric of his shirt.

Though oblivious to what had actually happened, Owen sensed something was wrong. Mickey knew that he missed his father – Ian was the light in the boy's eyes, his cling on, and Owen seemed a little lost without Ian around. Yev, however, was as broken as Mickey – Ian had been there for him from the start. No matter what anyone said, Mickey always saw Ian as Yev's  _real_ father, non of that adoptive, step-dad bullshit that the law refer him to. Ian not being there swallowed them up, it sucked them into a world of darkness which neither Mickey or Ian wanted for them. Mickey felt guilty for it; Mickey felt he was to blame. His sons were suffering the consequences of his stupid, idiotic actions that led to Ian literally being at deaths door. It wasn't fair. None of it was. 

Mickey shifts a little, his own tears streaming down his face and catching at the top of Yev's shirt. With his strength, he stands, lifting them both in his arms. It's still dark out – the moon still the only source of light outside, except for the dotted street lamps. Mickey goes to walk towards the door but as he does he feels a hand fisted into his shirt, clinging on.

When he looks at his hip, Owen's blood-shot eyes are looking back. “Daddy?” He splutters, snot all around his small button nose and spit all around his mouth. “Can we sleep with you tonight?” His arms are tight around him, pleading, just as Ian had back on the lobby floor, and Mickey can't resist it.

He looks over to Yev, who's wiping his face rapidly, trying to rid of the tears that stained his cheeks. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to, his furiously beating heart is enough to let Mickey know that these boys really-fucking-needed him right now. He rounds the bed, placing Owen on the left side and Yevgeny on the right. Mickey rubs a hand over his face before crawling into the middle of the two, pulling them close to his sides. The bed didn't seem so cold any-more.

Yev leans up on his elbow, his finger tracing the cut across the top of Mickey's eye. “How's your head, dad?” He asks, voice still a little croaky from crying, he pulls his finger back as Mickey hissed under his breath. Mickey knows he's trying to avoid the subject.

Mickey shakes it off, reassuring him that it didn't hurt. “Nah, it's fine.” He wishes it was fine, oh boy does he wish that everything could be just  _fucking_ fine for once. He nudges Yev in the side, “Where did you learn how to do all that stuff, anyway?” He could guess, but he wanted to hear it for himself. 

The eight-year-old shrugs before resting his head against Mickey's chest. He sighs,mumbling sadly, “Dad taught me how to do it. He said that some days he won't be here to help you clean up and it's super important that we look after you.” When Mickey feels himself glancing down towards him, he's met with the worst expression. His son was hurting –  _badly –_ and he couldn't do anything to fix it, he couldn't stop the pain, but Yevgeny expected him to. 

The words hit harder than his head against the side-table – Ian  _wasn't_ there. He wasn't there to protect them, or to clean them up. He wasn't there to tell them to shut up whilst watching some cheesy-ass romantic comedy that he wasn't even really watching. He wasn't there to tell the kids to pick up their dirty plates and to be respectful towards the cleaners. Ian  _wasn't_ there to fix it. Ian had always been the one to fix it. That fucking  _hurt._ Mickey couldn't help but pull the two of them closer because he had never felt so far away in his whole life and he needed them. Just like they needed him. 

Owen shifts tiredly at his side, his small hand playing with a loose piece of thread and dangled from the arm of Ian's shirt. His lip is quivering and moving as if trying to prepare to say something. Mickey squeezes his little shoulder as encouragement, hoping desperately that Owen could at-least speak to him too. Owen rubs his head against Mickey's chest, his hand opening and closing at the top of his shirt. Quietly, he asks, “When is Daddy coming home?”

_Home._

Mickey keeps hearing that word and it's driving him crazy.

“Soon.” He tells them, kissing both of their heads. Obviously, he has no clue what's going to happen and that scared him – it scared him that for once he couldn't _sort_ his stupid mistakes. Ian was dying in a hospital bed, clinging for his last inch of life, and Mickey couldn't breathe either. He just wanted Ian there, in his arms, with his kids, just _there,_ home. His words come out all choked, “Dad is going to be home soon, I promise.”

***

Mickey doesn't feel sober enough to drive yet. For once he's being the respectable person Ian always asked him to be, and for once he wasn't exactly thinking about himself. Lip had called and promised he would pick the three up and take them to the hospital just before visiting times. Mickey felt the quake in his boots, the thud of his heart when it dropped to the pit of his stomach, but when he looked at his kids he felt himself float back to the ground, standing firm in a strong sense of calm. They waited outside the front, double doors for Lip, Mickey biting at his nails whilst the kids sat slumped against the small step.

The gravel crunched like leaves in autumn as Lip's car pulled up outside. Owen and Yevgeny both looked up quickly, their eyes widening as they noticed Lip sat in the front seat. As they both ran towards the back seats of the car, Mickey slowly lifted himself up from the small step he had been perched on. The day before he was adamant to see Ian, he would have thought about killing someone if he didn't get to see him, but over night the reality set in. He was scared. He wasn't sure whether he was ready to see Ian hooked up to machines, as if he were asleep, a tube stuck in his mouth feeding air into his lungs. That image was never going to settle with him; especially now he knew that there was a possibility that Ian might never leave that bed.

Lip smacks the side of the car. “Hey, Mick. Come on, they start his tests in twenty minutes.” Lip's eyes look tired, bags hung beneath them, his cheek-bones poking out a little against the dirt clamped against his face. Mickey knew that Lip wouldn't budge an inch from that waiting room; unlike Mickey, he didn't have kids to look out for, nor a girl he had to go home to.

Mickey grunts, moving around the car to open the door to the passenger seat. As he slumps into the chair he hears Lip telling Owen and Yev to put on their seat-belts, and despite feeling a little clearer, Mickey still couldn't hear right. The rattling thoughts in his mind were chattering, yelling, trying to grab his attention, he only wondered if this was what Ian felt like sometimes. It was if he was in the ring, he hands at the ready, but the crowd wasn't cheering his name they were calling him out, spitting at him, _blaming_ him for what happened.

Lip pulled off the curb and drove out past the double, black gates. The car ride remained in silence apart from the rumbling engine below them. Mickey bit at his nails, leaning his head against the window as the car sped down the road at full speed. Two minutes went by but they felt like years; Mickey felt like the world had slowed down, teasing him, dragging him along like he was on a leash and his body had given up.

Looking over briefly, Lip breaks the deafening silence. “We went in to see him.”

Mickey's heart pounds a little faster, telling him that Lip might have bad news, that maybe they all went in and saw Ian and they had pulled the plug. Mickey wants to say something, something like _how's he doing?_ Or _What did the doctor say?_ But nothing comes out, nothing at all but a short nod as his eyes started to glaze.

Lip talks anyway; he must sense Mickey's reluctance to speak. “He's – well, he's not doing to good.” He's speaking quietly so the kids don't hear. “I mean, the machine is helping him and all, but they said if they took him off it he wouldn't make it. It's just shit, you know, he's the only one that actually got _out_ and he's paying for it.”

Quickly glancing to the back seats, Mickey stares over to Lip. Ian did get _out,_ he did it pretty fucking well too, but maybe the world was punishing him, but for a totally different reason. Maybe Ian had been taking too much shit from Mickey over the years. Mickey fiddles with the strayed piece of skin in the corner of his finger.“It's all my fault.”he feels himself whisper.

Lip's hands clench around the wheel as he turns into the hospital parking lot. As he slams down the breaks, turning off the engine, he looks over to Mickey, his face hard. “Mickey, it ain't your fucking fault. None of this is. It's that evil fucker who decided to pull out a gun on my brother.” He grabs his keys and pushes harshly at his door, whipping it open.

Mickey stares at the dashboard, listening to the kids chattering as they left the back of the car. He looks over to the baring doors that nearly threw him under the day before and his hands start to shake. He's not sure whether he's scared or if he just needed a drink, but he couldn't move for more than one minute until Lip's fist hit against the window, his head nodding towards the place that Mickey feared the most.

He knew he shouldn't fear it – the place was keeping Ian safe, it was doing a better job than Mickey ever had, or ever tried to. The place was giving Ian life, air to breathe, energy to pump the blood around his body; that used to be Mickey's job. Mickey was meant to keep him alive. Mickey steps out of the car, deeply inhaling the cold, sharp air as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Lip walks over and slaps his back, giving him a nod of reassurance. Mickey can't yet accept it, he can't accept it would be okay until it was actually okay, until Ian was awake to say it was okay. He follows his sons towards the main doors and tries to remember how to breathe as dread washes over his body, making his chest feel hallow and his mouth to go dry. When he sees the main desk the same nurse is sat there, frantically making her way around the small space, and Mickey glances over trying to forget his erratic behaviour the day before. He can feel himself want to go back to that moment, to feel that rage all over again, but when Owen clutches to his hand he feels the weight lift off.

Yev's already half-way down the corridor, embracing Fiona into a tight hug. Mickey feels the room moving, the doors and people passing him, but he can't feel his legs moving as he took each-step closer to the room with the open door. Owen's hand is tight against his, squeezing together as the cold started to warm around their fingers. Lip nods towards the room, giving him a weak smile. Mickey can see the glassy eyes all the Gallagher's had, the way they all slumped in their chairs and bit at their nails nervously. They were all going through it. They all felt it. Mickey couldn't help but think that if he had jumped in before the gun-shot, if he hadn't burst out and hit Jay, if he would had just _gone the fuck home,_ none of them would be sat there praying for Ian's life.

Owen tugs at his arm, causing him to look down. “Can we see Daddy now?”

For the first time, Mickey feels his body move quicker than his mind.

***

The door creaks as Mickey pushes against the handle, the sound eerie and just like those in a horror film just seconds before the killer would take his shot and take the life of an innocent, blonde college chick. The smell of medicine, clean sheets, and something strange that Mickey couldn't yet put his finger on to what it was, invaded his nostrils, seeping into his skin. Mickey looked around the room before he let himself look over to Ian. The walls were all blue, exactly the same, and Mickey felt himself grow insane looking at them for more than a second; Ian would have a great time when he wakes up and all he sees is four, blank boring blue walls.

When he finally bucks up courage to look towards the bed, he feels his heart almost just disappear. It felt as if his soul had been ripped from his body, leaving him with nothing but an empty vessel with bloody insides. Ian's body was laid against the sheets, covered in tubes and endless amounts of wires. It was as if he were deceiving them; he looked like he was asleep. Despite the amounts of white wires around him, he still took Mickey's breath away. His skin was pale, as pale as it was when lying down against Iggy's blazer jacket, and the bone of his wrists and arms were thin, almost sticking out. The sheets were hitched up just above his waist, tucked into his sides tightly, covering the bandage around his wound. The hair on his head was still bright in contrast to the plain, white pillow case beneath it; Mickey felt a rush of relief when he laid eyes on the bright, red locks, as if it was a coping mechanism to see that Ian hadn't yet lost his colour. A tube stuck carefully from Ian's mouth, connected to a beeping machine that didn't quite look like an guardian angel nor did it look like a unearthly saviour from above.

The three of them are stood in a line, almost like that song about the bottles on the wall, one by one falling off and smashing to the floor. Mickey sways a little on the spot, his body loosing its control; Mickey thought he'd be used to that now, after all in the ring his body would run off adrenaline and anger other than his logic.

Owen's the first to move; he rounds the small bed and lightly tugs against Ian's hand. “Dad.” He calls out, his voice a little worried but still in a bliss of confusion. “Daddy?” As Mickey expected, Owen was still oblivious to what was going on, and it hurt him to have no idea how to even express the situation into words that a four-year-old would understand. Owen starts to get worried, his eyes look over to Mickey, pleading. “Is Daddy asleep? Why won't he speak?”

Mickey looks over to Yevgeny for some help, but his son shrugs – face blank, eyes hallow – and walks over to the other side of the bed, sinking down into a small, plastic chair and placing his head into his hands. Gulping harshly, Mickey slowly steps over to his son, his eyes diverting back and forth from the image before him of Ian all hooked up on wires, his presence almost non-existent. “Buddy,” Mickey starts, pulling out his own chair and moving it next to the bed. “Dad's in a deep sleep, and he might be in it for a little while.”

Owen's eyes widen as Mickey lifts him to his knee, sat down against the creaking chair. “For a _while?”_ he gasps, bringing his finger to his mouth and sucking against it nervously, trying to work everything out in his four-year-old mind. That was always Owen's problem, even at four he tried to take on the world. “So, like in that film where the princess goes to sleep and she doesn't wake up for like _years_ until that prince comes and kisses her?”

Mickey tries to catch every word in Owen's speedy spiel. He nods slowly, looking over to Yevgeny for a moment before regretting it as soon as he saw the eight-year-old grip onto Ian's hand tightly, his head placed against the sheets of the bed in the small space beside Ian's arm. Mickey bobs Owen a little on his knee, “Yeah, little man. You see that machine there?” He points to the life-support machine, his mind flashing to what might happen. Owen nods. “That helps him dream.”

Owen frowns, a little line forming between his brows. “ _Dream?_ About what?”

Shrugging, Mickey sniffs up deeply, trying to push away the shaking crack in his chest that began to release the emotions hiding behind the thick walls he built for protection. “I don't know. Why don't you ask him when he wakes up, yeah?” Mickey's trying to stay optimistic about it all, it was all he could do. Optimism was always Ian's thing – now, Mickey had to turn the tables.

After Owen nodded quietly, he rested his head against Mickey's shoulder. Mickey scoots the chair a little closer to the side of the bed, his hand reaching out and touch the pale, slightly cold but still alive, lean hand that lay lifeless against the sheets. His exhale came out a little broken, the air getting caught in his throat. He felt the tears threatening to spill, resting, waiting to fall from his eyes and down his face. _It wasn't meant to be like this._

The room falls silent. The noise from outside was barely noticeable against the soft beat of the monitor besides Ian's bed. Mickey stared at Ian's face; taking in all of his features, memorising them in-case life swooped in a stole them all away from him. The tube rests inside Ian's both, the soft breathing through the plastic like the lullaby Ian would sing to the kids at night. Mickey's heart clenched and twisted, his stomach curled into knots, his hands growing damp with sweat, his eyes burning as they tried to keep back everything.

Mickey couldn't breathe.

_It wasn't meant to be like this._

Intertwining his fingers through Ian's, knocking the little plastic clip against Ian's index finger, he feels himself growing scared, frightened, petrified – the fear escalated each second. Mickey had took this touch for granted, shoving Ian off every-time he tried to hold his hand, but now Mickey needed Ian's fingers to squeeze around his more than anything. Ian's soft breathing through the plastic tube was almost superficial, Mickey needed to _feel_ Ian.

Yevgeny is whispering into Ian's hand, his eyes closed, his body hunched over the side of the bed from his position in the small, plastic chair. Mickey bites back his shudder, kissing the top of Owen's head in guilt that his son had no clue why Ian was in there. He had been in this situation a couple of times – Ian being in the hospital, trying to recover from a deadly wound, but he couldn't imagine what Yevgeny and Owen were going through; he remembered the first time Ian had tried to end it, slitting his wrists in their kitchen whilst everyone was out, and he remembered the confusion, the numbness, the fear that thrived through your veins and _controlled_ you. If he couldn't handle it, a grown-ass man who is known for his tough reputation, then he had no idea how the kids were going to cope with it all.

Suddenly, the creaking, horror-film, door opened. Mickey's fingers tightened around Ian's limp ones, his other arm curling into a clutch around Owen's waist. A nurse walked in, with what Mickey assumed was Ian's file in her hand. Mickey hadn't seen her before, he didn't know whether or not to look at her as their guardian angel or the grim reaper.

Mickey sniffed up, turning his gaze back to the lifeless body he once knew as the ball of lightning in his life. He watched as Ian's chest weakly lifted, the sound of his laboured breathing a little distant through the life-saving tube in his mouth. Yevgeny didn't shift when the nurse arrived, he just sat with his head against the mattress, as if he too was sleeping.

The nurse clears her throat, hands fiddling with the raw edge of the file. “Mr Milkovich?”

Directing his gaze over to her, Mickey expects the worst. He nods, unable to speak. The sight is breath-taking, in a way that he hated and wanted to get rid of. His fingers grow cold against Ian's, his hand starting to shake a little.

Stepping closer, the nurse clears her throat once more, her glance going to each of them. “Sir, I'm really sorry but we really need to take Ian for testing.” Her voice was almost sympathetic, but Mickey did wonder how many times she would have to use that voice in one day. Nearly 200,000 people die each day, that's a lot of fake condolences.

Mickey felt himself stick to the chair, his body forcing him down. He couldn't leave. He just got there, he finally got to see Ian and they're already taking them away from him. Mickey loved Ian; he already knew that from the start, and seeing him like this – cooped up supported by stupid machines and weird wires – it broke his heart. It should have been the other way around. Mickey feels his hands gripping to Ian's, his knuckles almost white. He looks over to Yevgeny, trying to read him, who looked blank, shaking his head.

The nurse spoke again. “Visiting hours start at 8am tomorrow morning. After Ian's critical state we need to run these tests to make sure everything is running correctly.”

As soon as Yevgeny gives him that pleading look, Mickey's up on his feet, Owen balanced around his hip. “Tomorrow morning?” He repeats her words, scowling. “Are you fucking serious? We've been in here for five fucking _minutes_ and you're already shoving us out. That's their fucking _dad,_ lady, do you understand that?”

Flinching a little, the nurse rears back. “Sir, there is nothing I can do. Ian needs to be _checked.”_

Mickey licks at his lips nervously; his son's were pleading, looking at him like he could sort the world out from all of its issues, they were expecting him to sort it all out. So, he tries. He sits Owen down in the small, plastic chair he had been sitting on prior to the nurse invading. “Listen, nurse-” he looks down towards her name badge, “-McKay. Are you seriously going to take them away from their father? Seriously?”

Despite how hard Mickey tried, the nurse was having none of it. She places the file into the small pocket at the end of the bed and gives him a weak smile. “I'm sorry, sir. Without these tests we can not be sure if the life-support machine is actually helping Ian. This is a very time consuming process, we need to be as quick and as thorough as we can be.” She glances over to the kids, before turning back for Mickey. “Please, for Ian's sake.”

Mickey's usually good at making decisions; he'd usually choose the next move in under three seconds flat, but this wasn't just some deal, or fight, or even a choice between two pairs gloves, it was Ian. This was Ian's life. He nods his head slowly, despite his body wanting to stick to the floor and remain there until Ian woke up. He looks over to Ian; the beautiful being that was hit with the backfire of Mickey's stupid actions. He didn't want to leave. Not now. But, Ian wouldn't want him to fight; he wouldn't tell Mickey to go crazy and yell at a nurse.

Owen jumps from the chair and leans over the side of the bed. He kisses Ian's cheek and wraps a small hand around Ian's waist. Mickey nearly bursts. Owen runs to Mickey and tugs at the bottom of his jacket, looking up towards him, “I want daddy to come home.”

_Home._ There's that word again. It's haunting him, dragging him down.

Mickey feels his heart wanting to explode, his chest letting out deep exhales into the silent atmosphere. He strokes the top of Owen's tussled hair, “I know, buddy. I know.” He couldn't say,  _he's coming home._ Or,  _I'm taking him home now,_ because that was not an option; Ian might not even make it home and that scared him. 

As the nurse watched, Mickey walks over to Yevgeny. The eight-year-old sat, still slumped, over the edge of the bed. He didn't shift, or flinch, when Mickey placed his hand firmly on his shoulder. Instead, he sat in silence, watching as Ian's chest lifted and deflated in a slow, easy pace. Mickey leans down a little, “Bud?” 

Yevgeny shakes Mickey's hand away, grunting beneath his breath, “I'm staying here.” His gaze locks back towards Ian, his face growing red from the amount of pressure pushing him down. His hands play with a piece of thread frayed at the side of the blanket wrapped around Ian's torso, and his shudder is loud enough for them all to hear. 

The nurse steps forward to speak but Mickey shakes his head, putting his hand out. “Aright, I've got this.” He crouches down next to Yev's seat, his eyes burning yet again. His breath comes out shattered, all the emotions threading back through. “ Hey Yev, I know you want to stay. I want to stay too, but they've gotta do tests, they've gotta check everything is okay.” 

Mickey doesn't expect the reply to be so fast, or so blunt. Yevgeny turns to the side, his nose flaring just as Mickey's would. “It's not going to be okay, though, is it?” 

The question leaves him speechless, his heart thumping loud against his chest. Yevgeny doesn't wait for an answer, though, he leans forward and whispers something into Ian's ear, his hand curling around his fathers limp wrist before pulling away. His shoulders deflate as he steps up off his chair and barges past Mickey, walking over to Owen who stood at the end of the bed, his hands wrapped around the metal frame of the bed. 

Mickey can't see straight. Everything was falling apart. He stands still, looking towards Ian and the tube that fed him air. He felt his heart shatter, the blood pouring into the cracks that formed over the last couple of days; he couldn't breathe. He wondered whether he would be able to ever again. Instead, he feels a sudden rage, like when he freaked out in-front of the Gallagher's, and the cracks in his skin cut deep. He let the tears drop against his cheeks as he leaned down. He places his lips at the side of Ian's cheek, kissing against the smooth skin. His eyes fluttered closed as past memories fled, and when he opened them he knew exactly what he had to do. Placing his hand into Ian's, he curled his fingers around his. Despite the nurse watching, Mickey pressed his forehead into their locked hands, whispering, “I'm going to find him, man and I'm going to fucking kill him.” 

The nurse had to literally drag them all out, assuring them Ian would be okay. 

Mickey would do anything for Ian – he would blow up the whole fucking world if it meant protecting Ian. Mickey would do anything for his kids – hell, he would protect them till the day he fucking died, and probably after that too. They were his world. Now, he had to protect his world. 

The only thing that was on Mickey's mind was  _Jay fucking Jones._

***

Lip had offered to take the kids for the night; he had told Mickey to go get some rest, sleep it off so he could drive early in the morning to get to the hospital. Mickey felt like they were all watching him, monitoring his every move, calculating the next movement in which he would crack and burst into flames. They were waiting, in fact, and he knew that was why Lip had taken the kids for the night – they believe they are protecting Owen and Yevgeny from a Mickey that they already knew – the raging, alcoholic piece of shit. Mickey wanted to be thankful, but he missed his kids. He needed them there, to ground him, so he could protect them. He couldn't protect his kids when his kids weren't there to protect. 

Mickey thinks back to the hospital, the image of Ian hooked up to those machines. His body would curdle, sending sick, shock waves through his body. He had hurled into the toilet bowl three times since he had got back and the only cure he could honestly think of was a bottle of Jacks. Call him selfish, irresponsible, but Mickey didn't know how else to cope with it, this was the only way  _how_ that he had been taught.  _Drink your fucking Jacks and shut the hell up, boy._ His father's words run through his mind, infecting him with that pure rage. 

Suddenly, his mind clicked. He had to protect Ian. He had to protect the kids. He can to keep those he loved under safety, he needed  _vengeance._ No one shot Ian fucking Gallagher and got away with it, not when the love of his life was Mickey. Mickey could feel his skin getting itchy, burning, at the thought of Ian not being there any-more. He needed Ian, but he also needed vengeance. 

After already downing a whole bottle of Jacks, and snorted a little coke he found within his emergency stash – that Ian didn't yet need to know about – Mickey grabbed his loaded gun and hoisted it into his waistband, covering it with one of Ian's hoodies that he had taken from the closet. He grabs his keys for the car, pulling up the hood of his jumper over his head. Mind racing, heart in his throat, Mickey pushes through the double-front doors with force. It's around three-am, and Mickey didn't even bother grabbing the keys to the house. 

His eyes latch onto the figure sat on the steps; Iggy. The rage is instant, like a bullet had collided with his side and pierced him with anger that wasn't controllable. Mickey slams the door shut, and with still a slight limp, he walks straight past his brother. Without looking, he storms over to his car, blunting remarking, “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

Iggy immediately follows, his voice all shaky, stuttering. “I've been – I've been trying to get in touch, Mick. I went down to the hospital, they wouldn't let me see Ian. I just-” Mickey carries on walking, ignoring every word. Iggy follows. “Please, Mick, Please just fucking talk to me.” 

Mickey rounds the side of the car, blocking out his brothers words. He had to do this. No distractions; just like at every fight. Distractions limit your success. Mickey opens the car door to the drivers seat, sitting himself down into it. He didn't want to speak, not to Iggy, not to anyone, this needed to be fucking done. For Ian. 

Iggy grabs the top of the door, his hand tight against the metal, his voice pleading, “Mick, please – just let me fucking go with you, bro.” Mickey doesn't listen, he stares blankly out the front window of the car as he turns the engine on. Iggy rocks on his toes, leaning in with his eyes pleading Mickey to just listen. “Please, just fucking talk to me for one second.” 

Rubbing a hand over his mouth, the gun digging into his hip, Mickey utters, blankly. “What do you want to talk about?” 

Stuttering, Iggy tries to manage an answer, “Whatever is going on in your head, you know.” 

Mickey clenches his eyes shut – Iggy had no fucking idea what the hell was going on in his head. 

Iggy continues to mumble, “I just – I don't want you to do anything fucking stupid – like -” His voice shifts to unsure, hesitating to speak, Mickey listens anyway. “Like – going after Jay Jones-” He doesn't get chance to finish his sentence before Mickey leaps from the car and grips him at the collar, pushing him aggressively against the side of the car. 

Mickey keeps his grip hard against Iggy's throat, not choking him but not loose either. He grabs his gun from his hip, waving it around. “What the  _fuck_ do you want to talk about, huh?” He slams Iggy against the car again. “Huh? What the fuck do you want to talk about, Ig?”

Trying to free himself, Iggy struggles under Mickey's hold. “What the fuck, man, let me the fuck go-”

Mickey swings his fist, hitting Iggy straight in the jaw. His knuckles crack under the bone as Iggy stumbles to the side. Gripping at his collar, again, Mickey spits out his words, “You want to fucking talk now, huh?” Iggy doesn't speak, he grips at his jaw, blood from his nose dripping down past his mouth. Mickey punches him again, the booze in his system blurring his head. “Fucking talk then, you fucking pussy!” He punches him again, this time in the stomach, winding him. 

Iggy chokes on his own spit, stumbling backwards. He puts his hands out, trying to surrender to Mickey's immense rage. He knew he couldn't take Mickey on, hell, no one ever could. He stutters through the blood clogging his mouth, “Mick, just fucking listen to me -” 

Swiftly, Mickey kicks Iggy, sending him to the ground. His brother chokes, but he doesn't really notice when he grips at his jacket, his nose flaring and his mind rattling so hard nothing became recognisable in his memories. He grabs his gun and points at his head, his words pouring out like venom, “You were meant to fucking protect him.  _You.”_ He kicks him again. “You were the one who was supposed to fucking look after him.  _You!”_

“I'm sorry, I'm fucking sorry!” Iggy yells, clutching to his chest in pain.

Mickey had never seen Iggy so broken, so worn, so beat down – it was a strange image – but the alcohol had taken over his body and the anger was controlling him. He pulls back his gun, shoving it into his jeans. “Apologies don't mean fucking shit.” He shoves at Iggy's chest, “Ian is fucking _dying-”_

Iggy nods, trying to control his breathing. He shoves Mickey back. “I know, I fucking know!” Mickey stops in his tracks, eyes glued to his brother as he yelled loudly. “You fucking drinking, snorting coke, doing God-knows-fucking-what is not going to help the kids, or _Ian._ You need to get your fucking act together, man. If Ian was here-”

Mickey loses it, he lands a punch to Iggy's eye, knocking him over. “Fuck off, Ig. I need to do this.” Iggy's eyes narrow as he tries to push himself up, but Mickey doesn't bother with helping him, instead he storms back over to his car, slamming the door shut and pressed his foot onto the peddle.

***

He finds himself inside a gritty, old apartment block. The hallways have no light, the floor is covered in vomit, needles and everything someone with a cleaning disorder would despise. Mickey knew that Jay had a apartment in the block, John had told him a couple of weeks back about Jay drug dealing in the area and that Mickey had to stay away from it all. Mickey got to the 15th floor, his hood covering his eyes, his gun in his pocket, hand on the trigger ready to shoot. He cleared his mind of any conflicting thoughts – _he needed to do this. For Ian._

John had said that Jay would visit apartment 75 to hide his stash, store his drug money and sort out deals with other sellers. Mickey stormed down the dark hall, his finger running along the smooth metal of his gun. Once he found the door he banged his fist hard against the wood, his blood rushing fast around his body, pumping the adrenaline.

Mickey paced the floor, “Jay!” He yelled. _He could shoot. He could aim. All he needed was that fucks head to point his gun at._

He hears a little commotion behind the door before he hears a female, croaky voice call out. “Jay isn't here. Who is it?”

Mickey has no time for this bullshit. He needs Jay there, he needs to shoot him fucking dead for putting Ian in that hospital bed. “Open the door.” He demands, rocking against his feet as his hand continued to fumble around the gun.

“Who _is_ it?!” The voice calls out again, weak but strong enough to hear.

Lying, Mickey speaks closer to the door. He feels himself speaking in a voice he remembers from his past, the voice that would agree with his father, the voice that would scare off people before robbing them clean. “I need to speak to Jay, I've got some money for him.”

He steps back as he hears the door unlock. It opens still stuck on the chain, a woman's face appears at the door, all battered and sweaty. Her hand curls around the wood as she hides behind it, her voice is all hoarse, tired. “You can give it me.” Mickey didn't need to be an expert to know that she was high off her fucking ass – he could smell the alcohol pouring from her skin.

Mickey shakes his head, “Nah, I need to give it to him.” _He needed to fucking shoot him._ His body goes all jittery, the alcohol running through him like an energy burst. The woman stares at him, her hand clutching to the door.

Pushing the door shut, she calls out. “Just – Just hold on.”

The keys rattle behind the door as Mickey waits for her to open up. Sure, he felt sorry for the girl – she looked like shit, drugged up and a mess, but he couldn't distract himself from wanting to shoot Jay dead. When the door opens, she stands against its side, her dressed all ripped, bruises covering her arms, hair all matted and stuck up. She exhales some smoke, “Jay ain't here.”

Mickey curses under his breath, still pacing on the spot. “Where is he?”

The woman runs her fingers over the wood of the door, shaking her head. “I don't know. Jay doesn't tell me shit.” She pushes the door a little open and Mickey can see the sweat clamped to her skin, almost dripping. “You going to give me money or what? You got a hit?” She asks, swaying.

The gun in his head is growing warm under the hold and Mickey tries to fight back lashing out. The smoke from the apartment is pouring out into the hall, fogging up the air between them. Seeing this woman, like that, made him want to kill the fucker even more. “You his wife?” He asks, trying to calm himself down.

She leans her head against the door frame, shaking her head. “I don't have to be. Not today.”

Mickey feels sick rising up in his throat, the smell is mixing with the alcohol and drugs washing up in his system. Without thinking he pulls his gun out of his pocket, holding it behind him.

The woman repeats herself, voice growing soft. “You got any money? You got a hit?”

Pulling the gun out from behind him, Mickey points it towards her. “Where the fuck is he?!”

She stumbles back, her eyes widening. Her gasp is low and raspy as Mickey sees the fear run through her body in a shudder. “I – I -” She pushes the door open a little more, “I've got fucking kids, stop – I don't-” She turns around and lifts a small child into her arms, cradling him. “What- Are you fucking crazy?”

Mickey's body stops. He drops his hand and places the gun back into his pocket. His vision goes blurry, his mind rattling. _What the fuck was he thinking?_ He stumbles back a little, his head nearly dragging him down to the floor. “Fuck.” He mutters under his breath, taking off down the hall from which he just walked up.

The woman calls out to him, “Hey! You got a hit? Hey!”

Still walking, Mickey blocks out the voice behind him. The sick in his throat is verging breaking out and his body is starting to rack in the shakes. All he can hear is his fathers voice repeating himself over and over in his mind. He feels the hall spinning around him, his eyes glazed over with a mist. He gets to the stop of the stairs and his legs nearly buckle beneath him. Gripping onto the wall, he chokes on his spit. That's when he feels his whole body curdle and he hurls onto the floor, alcohol and bile splattering across the tile.

***

When Mickey finally gets home, he feels numb. The house is silent – the hall empty with nothing but a tick of the clock against the wall. Mickey walks towards the office – its full of his trophies, his belts, pictures of him winning each fight, each championship. He flicks the light on, looking up towards his last win. It's a picture of him and Ian, holding his belt, both smiling – Ian looked alive, he looked happy, his smile brighter than the lights behind from the flashing cameras.

Mickey felt sick to his stomach; _he didn't deserve this. None of it._ He looks around from belt to belt, trophy to trophy, to his first ever gloves – he walks over to the picture of all four of them, all sat by the pool, laughing, _happy._ The tears brim at the surface, dropping from his lids and down his cheeks and past his stubble. He lets out a shaky, uneven breath.

He can hear Ian's voice surrounding him. 

_One day you're going to get knocked the fuck down and me, Yev and Owen will have to pick up the pieces._

His whole body shudders, his skin turning cold. He glances back at the picture, welling up at the image. They were happy. They _were_ happy. Ian was right, he had always been right, Mickey was always too dumb to fucking listen.

The memory of his own voice makes him feel ill.

_They're not going to be pieces, aright._

Suddenly, he sees his reflection in the glass frame around the picture. The cut on his eye is all blooded and infected, his face is dark with dirt and his stubble is wrapping around his jaw and down his neck. The rage fills up, like a ticking time bomb, and Mickey blows off, shattering the glass with his fist. Flashes of Ian come to mind and he pulls the picture off the wall, chucking it across the room with the glass scattering across the wooden floor.

He yells as he smashes glass after glass, pulling all of his trophies from the cabinets and chucking them against the wall. He pulls at the wooden shelves, pulling off every single object that came in his path. Glass shattered and scattered across the floor as he smashed picture after picture. He kicks at the desk, knocking everything off of it, all the papers floating around the room as his rage refused to subside.

Just as he grabs the picture of them all by the pool, he feels himself unable to breathe at all. He stops, rubbing a hand across his face as he heard the glass beneath his feet crack at each step he took. A trophy falls off the shelve, smashing the floor as he stumbled over to the wall, leaning his head against it with his hands clutching tightly to the frame.

_Ian leans his chin against his shoulder, warming him inside. “Mick, I just don't want you to get hurt.”_

He slams his fist into the wall, breaking the plaster. “Mother fucking _fucker!”_ He yells to himself, screaming out into the empty house. His voice echoes around the four walls, the room trashed with glass and broken wood. He sinks to the floor, holding tightly to the picture as his mind remained unsure of what to do.


	5. Raw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm back with a new chapter! 
> 
> Healthy tips - 
> 
> 1) MICKEY IS FIGHTING AGAIN  
> 2) as we can see Mickey is not doing so good - just be patient he will work it out soon  
> 3) In the hospital, the Gallagher's will not be there always - at this point, though, Ian is very unwell and in critical condition so there is hell no chance of them leaving  
> 4) Don't worry Mandy will be here soon;)   
> 5) I am promoting the hell out of this film, and would like to give credit to the script-writers and directors of this film for the amazing plot and dialogue that I may use throughout this story  
> 6) EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY IN THE END OK

It's not the pounding in his head that wakes him up from his dreamless sleep, it's the loud – too loud – banging coming from the front of the house. Mickey didn't exactly remember where he ended up passing out after emptying bottle after bottle that he had taken from the cellar, but when his strained to open his eyes he realised he had stayed in the same room all night. Turning over, the glass from the cabinets crunch and crack beneath him. The room has a whisky and rotten cigarettes odour that Mickey strangely felt comforted by. The banging grew more impatient, and Mickey swore he could hear voices from a distance, he didn't try to work out the person behind the voice – nor did he care who it was desperate to wake him up and get into his house.

It could be a bunch of reporters, or even a burglar, but Mickey didn't feel threatened or afraid – there were worse things his mind was trying to hold back from, digging deep into his skull combining with the dull, heaviness resting there from the alcohol.

Everything was so _loud._ Even the glass crunching under his feet as he stumbled up from the floor seemed to be ringing through his ears. The room is pitch-black, the curtains blocking out the sun-light from what Mickey assumed was early morning. He had never been grateful for his drunk-self, but on this rare occasion he was thanking himself for closing those curtains.

As he walked to the double doors, his bare feet padding against the marble floor, he heard the loud, gruff voice behind the wood. “Mickey! Get the fuck up, we need to talk business!”

Mickey groaned as the light fled through the two glass windows at either-side of the door – he remembered Ian fussing and pleading for those two windows, he would say they made the house look brighter, feel better. Mickey obviously never understood the concept of a polished home, but he was starting to hate the fact he gave in to Ian's pleads about the transparent sheets in the wooden frames. “Aright, Fucking hold on!” He yells, patting his back pockets to find his keys.

His eyes are burning still, nausea still clogged up in his throat. Each fast movement made it worse, as if he was sat on a rocky boat, looking out the crashing waves that shook its structure, threatening to tear it apart. Once he found his keys, he struggles to push the metal into the lock. There's a couple of exhausted mumbles from behind it, Mickey feels himself muttering too – he needs to leave soon, to see his son's and to see Ian.

Swinging the door open, he lets out an annoyed groan. “What the fuck do you want, John?”

John is stood in a black, tailored suit, his button loose at the top and his tie slightly out of place against his pressed white shirt. He's holding a file in his heads – it looked familiar, Mickey could already guess it was the one he had passed over to Ian a couple of days back. The thought makes him feel sick. Next to John is another man, short, glasses balanced at the bridge of his nose, his suit less smart than John's, but nevertheless still formal.

Walking past Mickey, John rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “Mickey, we need to talk.”

Mickey watches as the messy-suit stranger walks through into his house, his teeth baring a little with a instinctive protection. Chuckling a little, Mickey itches his chest – only just noticing his informal and gross attire; he had stripped from his clothes the night before, he was stood in a white tank, whisky stains soaked in it, and he was slumped in a pair of over-sized sweats. He slaps his hand against his chest, a grin forming against his still-cut face, “What? Are you breaking up with or something?”

Shaking his head, John scowls. “Stop fucking around, Mickey. This is serious.”

The grin drops from his face as he looks between the two man before him. If anything, they both remind him of two prosecutors in court, looking down at him, judging him. He feels the need to just run because he's already predicted that this can't be good. Once one thing falls apart, everything follows. He nods his head slowly, shutting the door. John nods towards the dining room table and they all lead into the next room.

Mickey slumps into a chair, separating himself from the other two sitting on the opposite side of the table. John gives a couple of glances, his expression more worried than angry. The other guy – who Mickey had a sudden urge to punch – stared down at a stack of papers that he had placed before him on the glass table. The silence was deafening, making Mickey's skin itch, making the room feel smaller as if the walls were closing in, trapping him.

Cracking his knuckles, Mickey blurts, “What the fuck is this about? I need to get to the fucking-”

Surprisingly, glasses was the first one to speak. “Listen, Mickey, you have a lot of money going out. I mean, the house is yours – I know you and Ian purchased it – but with the games, legal fees, your son's education, taxes, _and_ now the hospital fees.” It almost whispers the last part. “There's no easy way around this, it's adding up.”

Mickey tries to listen, tries to take in everything that this slime-ball was saying. The guy was wrong – it didn't add up. _None_ of this was adding up. It was all a mess, a big ball of everything all tangled up and twisted. It didn't make sense.

John taps a small stack of letters and glasses nods, trying to give off a sympathetic look that Mickey instantly recognised as fake. “Mickey, most of these payments are over-due.”

The guy carries on his spiel but Mickey cuts him off, leaning back in his chair. His voice comes out slurred, still lined with alcohol that lingered in his system. “ _So,”_ he starts, stabbing the guy with his eyes, “pay them.”

Fidgeting, the guy purses his lips before bringing his counter argument. “With what?”

The guy was wrong, _nothing was fucking adding up._ What he was saying didn't add up. Mickey's mind is racing and he feels his blood boil. His eyes are almost shut, the heavy weight of his tired lids casting a shadow over his gaze. His head rears back as he fails to understand what the idiot was trying to get at. Mickey grits his teeth, “What the hell do you mean, _with what?_ With my fucking money!”

The guy flinches, John gives him an unimpressed look. Glasses coughs, clearing his throat. He shifts his chair closer to the table, his hands still resting on the stack of papers that Mickey felt were going to be his death warrant. “That's why I'm here, Mickey.” His voice is calm as he maps out carefully each word before Mickey. “Your money is drying up. You've got to see what's happening here. You need to cut back – I don't mean the house, that's yours -”

Mickey feels himself growing hot, his eyes glancing back and forth between the two men. The words were like fire, they were burning him at each syllable, he just didn't _get it._ Whatever this idiot was pouring from his mouth it couldn't be the truth. John tries to stop the idiot from speaking, placing a firm hand against his lower arm, but he's carries on listing things that Mickey didn't have the energy to even think about.

“We've taken two of the cars-”

Shaking his head, over and over, Mickey fails to suppress his rage. His eyes are squinted, trying to work out what the hell was going on. When Ian wasn't around Mickey found it hard to even hold in a little speck of rage, never-mind a bulging pit of thorns that scratched and clawed at his insides in order to escape. He slams his hand against the glass surface, “What the _fuck_ is this about?!”

The guy stutters, “It's real simple-”

Mickey feels his body vomiting his anger, gripping his insides and tearing him up. His words come out even worse, slurred and pumped up with his confusion and anger mixed into one. “What is this about, huh? You stealing my fucking money? Is that what this is?”

This _idiot_ was stealing his money – he had to be. Mickey knew that he and Ian had enough to last until the kids were their age – the bank was almost over-flowing. It had to be. Mickey wasn't the one to sort out his fucking taxes or legal fees, that was not his job. His _job_ was to go out and make that money so his family had enough to eat, had a bed to sleep in, had a roof over their heads, have a life that he and Ian barely knew. He can't help but believe that this idiot, the government, the stupid boxing boards, were taking his money. _His money could not just dry the fuck out._

The guy surrenders his hands, giving an bewildered expression. “Wait – what?”

Mickey's fists clench against the table – he lets out an provoked groan, wishing that Ian could just walk in and sweet-talk the idiot out of his fucking house. “You stealing from me, huh?” He asks, biting into his bottom lip with his brows raised high. It didn't matter how much money he made, where he lived, Mickey would never let anyone take what he had.

“No, I-”

John interrupts, his soft voice slicing through the violent accusations. He places his hand onto the guys arm, before looking over to Mickey sincerely. “Look, Mickey, I can take care of this-”

“ _For fuck sake,”_ Mickey blurts, running a rough hand down his face. The white tank sticks to his chest as his body grows hot from the mess before him. For what he had just heard – he's already fucked apparently, and he's letting it all happen whilst Ian was dying in a hospital bed. He looks towards the clock behind John, it reads 7:34 am and his heart goes into panic once he realises that visiting hours were growing incredibly close. Giving in, he shrugs giving glasses the dagger eyes, glaring into his soul with pure – fucking – _hatred._

Reaching over, John shuffles the stack of papers and moves them towards him. “Just leave these with me, I'll take it.” He looks briefly over to Mickey, who's shaking his hand, biting down against his nails as his knee bobbed rapidly beneath the table.

The idiot stands up, Mickey feels himself laughing inside – the idiot was _running._ John and Mickey watch as the short-man pulls on his jacket and mumbled under his breath. With a stutter, he pushes his chair under the table, looking directly to Mickey. “Mickey, I – I, uh, I'm really sorry about what happened to Ian. I hope he's doing okay-”

Mickey's hit all over again – his opponent his mind, the fists being each memory, each word, each image of Ian hooked up to wires and laying almost lifelessly against white, dull sheets. The coil in his stomach tightens, causing him to nearly gasp for air. Instead, he feels his chest rumble with laughter, he lets out a little chuckle. _That fuck didn't give a shit. Not about Ian. Not about Mickey, nor about their two kids who were experiencing hell on Earth._

When they hear the door slam shut, Mickey reaches for a bottle of half-drunken beer that he had left on the table the night before. Emptying the glass bottle, he lets out a burp. John tries to ignore it, he even tries to not notice when Mickey chucks the bottle behind him and it smashes against the hard, wooden floor. Instead, he taps the papers, “Look, Mick. You need this. It solves _all_ your problems.”

Mickey looks down at the paper, all the inked words are blurred, each sentence merging into nothing but a black line against the white background. He can't make out what it is, and he had taught himself – well, Ian reminded him enough – not to sign something without reading it. Leaning forward, he squints a little, “What the fuck is it?”

John doesn't hesitate, he picks up the pen and dangles it in-front of Mickey. “It's the contract. Ten million per fight.” Mickey looks over to him, face still scrunched up into a scowl. John shifts in his seat, his voice changing into a slower, careful tone. “Look, I'm not going to pretend that I know what pain you're going through, but I do know that for _you,_ you need to get back in that ring.”

Ian's voice rings through his ears, almost deafening him.

_I – I need a break._

Mickey shakes his head – he pushes the paper further across the table, away from him.

_Mick, I didn't like what I saw tonight. At all._

John tries to push it back, mumbling words that had no sound next to Ian's voice repeating over in his mind.

_I want to enjoy it with you._

“No.” Mickey blurts, pushing the paper back. Ian's voice was haunting him, each sentence as if Ian was actually there, telling him not to go through with it. Mickey had made a promise, he couldn't go fight, he couldn't go behind Ian's back. “No. Ian wouldn't want that-”

_You say it, man, I'll fucking do it._

Mickey hears himself, the words repeating over and over like a broken record. His hands grow clammy, sweat forming between each finger, and his chest his trying to hold back the fast thumping of his beating heart. He shakes his head, looking away from both John and the contract. “No, No. Ian doesn't want me to sign that.”

John shakes his head, “ _No,_ Ian didn't want you to sign a debt.” He grabs the pen and hits the end of it against the contract. “ _Now,_ he needs you to sign the contract.”

What did John know? Mickey had known him for years now, possibly a decade Mickey didn't really count. He didn't know what Ian _needed,_ he didn't know that Owen and Yevgeny needed. He didn't know shit other-than how to impress a crowd, how to book fights, how to rival Mickey up and get him ready for the ring. John didn't _know_ shit.

Mickey feels himself flinch each-time John mentions Ian; for some reason, he felt protective over his _name –_ as if only he could say it, and whenever someone else recalled Ian they were breaking that barrier of safety that Mickey had surrounded Ian with. Letting out a breath, Mickey asks, “Why- Why the fuck would he need that?”

John sighs, “Man, listen. Every-time I see you fight, you climb in that ring  _alone._ Every-time you bled, you bled _your_ blood.” Mickey finally looks over, his eyes growing heavier. John continues to speak, his voice soft, “Every-time you sat on that stool and you felt like death, and that you couldn't get up, _you_ got up. _You_ did that, Mickey. You need to get back to that.”

Mickey feels his walls crumbling, his hard exterior slowly deteriorating as John's words dug deep. John was right – all of this, the fighting, the black eyes, the broken noses, it was all _his._ Ian didn't make his decisions, Ian and the kids were the _reason_ for his decisions. The world around him was falling apart, and Ian wasn't there to catch him when he fell with it, he _needed_ to at-least keep the ground beneath Ian and the kids safe, unbreakable even, he needed to make sure that the world they lived through wasn't falling to pieces.

Ian's voice was still there, though, eating away at him.

John feels Mickey's hesitation, his voice suddenly grows harsh. “Do you want Yevgeny and Owen to grow up how you and Ian grew up, huh? You want them in the streets?” Mickey feels his fists clench at his sides at the mention of his son's, he tries to block him out. “What about Ian? Do you want to let him down, huh? Do you want him to _die_ in that hospital bed?”

Slamming his fists to the table, Mickey grunts, trying to control himself. “Shut the fuck up.”

Unaffected by Mickey's sudden outburst, John leans against the table. “It's a three-fight deal, Mickey. We've got to get back to doing what do, man.” He slaps his hand against Mickey's tense shoulder, trying to grip his attention back. “When you're in the ring, you're going to feel different. I'm telling you, Ian would want you to do this.”

Mickey feels himself giving in. His chest feels hallow, the hole in chest needing to be filled by something. He knows that John is right – he might feel better in the ring where he can unleash his emotions and use his fists to fight his demons. The kids needed this. Ian needed this. Doing this fight would protect the ground beneath them, he needed to secure the remaining pieces that were already starting to crack.

Nodding his head, he lets out a breath that he felt his lungs trapping within him. He leans against the table, his hands trembling as he grabbed the pen from John. “This is just a contract, right?” His hand hovers over the paper, the words still blurred in his vision.

John places his hand firmly at his shoulder, “This is about family.”

Despite his guilt and reluctance to go against the promise he had pledged to Ian, Mickey places the tip of the pen against the dotted line. “I don't know what I'd do without you, man.”

John squeezes Mickey's shoulder, tone lower. “You don't need to worry about that.”

Mickey nods his head. He needed to do this. _This_ would be the beginning of picking all the pieces up and placing them back together. He scribbles his name sloppily against the dotted line, signing off himself to the three-fight deal. A sudden weight is lifted from his shoulders, and finally he feels as if he's starting to sort out the mess he had started.

***

Storming through the hospital, Mickey follows the path he had taken the day before. The hall-ways are cluttered with nurses, some patients, and a couple of roaming children. Mickey still can't hear against the voices chattering in his mind. His legs starts to click and he's limping towards the room he remembers Ian being in. The waiting room is empty apart from a couple of strayed jackets, a pair of small shoes – which he knows are Owen's – and empty chocolate wrappers. He's late by half-an-hour, and he knows he needs to make up for lost time. Still in his condition, he had driven to the hospital, his eyes still blurry and head still pounding and drowsy.

As he gets to the room door, Lip steps out, his hair all over the place and his shirt still creased from where they had been folded. Mickey doesn't bother greeting him, or embracing him in a emotional hug that people usually did in these situations, instead he tries to look through the open door – catching glimpses of the Gallagher's all sat around the bed, Owen and Yevgeny squished into one chair, looking towards their father. Ian was still pale, still hooked up the machines, the tube clasped in his mouth.

Mickey feels himself shudder, before he asks a question he already knows the answer to. “Where are the kids?”

Lip jolts a little at Mickey's appearance. He glances over the messy-state of Mickey's body, the fact that he's wearing one of Ian's old coats, sweats hanging off his hips, his white-tank still stained and stuck to his chest. He nods his head towards the open door, “In there. They aren't doing any tests until tomorrow so they said we could stay till late, past visiting hours.”

Nodding, Mickey tries not the slur. “They okay?”

Again, he feels himself asking a question he already knew the answer to. The kids were not okay, none of them were – they had to watch their father breathing through a plastic tube, stuck to a hospital bed while nurses checked him and preformed tests on him, it wasn't _okay._

Giving a shattered look, Lip sighs. “I don't think any of us will be okay until Ian wakes up.”

Mickey doesn't listen – he feels as if Lip's words have a hidden meaning. Lip was clearly stating that Mickey was to blame, and his sarcastic choice of words were defining that. Mickey brushes past him, stumbling a little against his feet as he went to push the hospital room door fully open.

Lip turns his nose up as Mickey's scent wafts over him. “Wait-” He pushes a hand into Mickey's chest, pulling him back towards him. Mickey grunts as he glances over his features, his laboured breathing, his eyes that were almost closed. Lip sighs, anger underling his tone, “Are you fucking drunk?”

Pushing Lip's hand off with force, Mickey scowls. “So-fucking-what if I am?”

Lip shakes his head, his face scrunching into a disgusted expression. “Did you drive here?” He asks, looking back over Mickey's filthy attire. Mickey just shrugs, a frown forming against his face as Lip started to boil up. “Are you fucking kidding me, Mickey? You drove here like _that?_ You carry on with this shit those kids are going to be taken off you, you know? Or worse, you could get yourself fucking killed because you're too drunk to notice the road!”

The outburst was something Mickey could control – he's heard it many times, it didn't effect him in the slightest. Barging his shoulder into Lip's, Mickey hisses, “I'm fucking here, aren't I?” He doesn't wait for Lip's reaction, instead he pushes through the half-open door and tells himself to breathe as his eyes clasp to the image that haunted him.

Fiona looks up as Mickey enters, her shoulders sagging in what looked like relief. She scrapes her chair back as she steps up and pulls him into a tight embrace. “Jesus, Mickey. What the fuck happened to you?” She leans back, as if examining him, before she pulls the same expression Lip had just seconds before. “Have you been drinking?”

Just before Mickey was about to yell about everyone _questioning_ him, to which he would have to pull a bullshit excuse out of his ass, Owen leaps from his chair beside Ian's bed, running over and clutching to Mickey's leg. “Daddy! Daddy! I missed you!”

Fiona gives him a unsure look, shaking her head as she sat back down in her chair. Mickey brushes it off, preparing himself for a lecture waiting to erupt later on, and pulls Owen up into his arms. He kisses the little boy's forehead, “I missed you too, buddy.” With a shaky breath, he steps around the crowd of Gallagher's that stared into his soul, and sat in the empty chair next to Yevgeny.

Once he's sat down, he looks over to Ian, his body shuddering as if he's seeing it for the first time all over again. Ian looked the same – his pale skin prodded and hooked to numerous wires, his hair was still bright against the pillow, and his face was expressionless as he held the tube in his mouth. Mickey felt his heart drop – Ian was the only person who couldn't control his emotions, and yet, he's laid in a bed with nothing but a shallow breathing and a beeping monitor to tell them he was still alive.

Mickey places Owen against his knee, his free-hand reaching over to squeeze Yevgeny's arm. In a low voice, he asks, “Hey, kiddo.” He doesn't know what to say – he doesn't know how to make them feel better. Where as Owen was a ball of energy, just like Ian, oblivious to the situation, Yevgeny was like Mickey – he didn't express his emotions that clearly, he didn't like people smothering him with gestures and words to make it feel better, he just stayed quite, trying to work it out on his own.

Yevgeny removes his arm away from Mickey's hand, his eyes not moving from their gaze towards Ian and his slowly moving chest. “Hi.” He deadpan, face lifeless and blank.

Looking over towards the other Gallagher's, Mickey realises that his son must have been acting like this for some time now. They all gave him a sympathetic look, biting at their lips, eyes glazed over with tears. His body turned cold when he felt himself grow speechless – he couldn't make it better, because everything was falling apart. Just like Yev, he couldn't speak, he couldn't express his emotions freely and ask for help. That just wasn't him.

***

A couple of hours later, the crowded room emptied. The Gallagher's had taken off home, one by one, telling Mickey that they would return the next day. Mickey didn't move from his seat, only to use the toilet, or to get some food for the kids. Owen had eaten his snickers bar happily, offering up some to Mickey. Yev, however, hadn't eaten a thing – he had moved once towards the larger chair at the back of the room that the nurses had brought in, pulling a blanket over himself. Owen had followed, cuddling up under his brother's arm as they both watched their father breathe slowly and evenly in his bed.

When the darkness started to bask through the small windows, Mickey felt himself grow wide-awake. He rested his head against his arms laid against the space on the sheets, his hand intertwined with Ian's lifeless one. The sight was unbearable, he felt himself wanting to run, wanting to hide away and never see the image again – because Ian was the love of his life. Mickey didn't know love until he realised it was staring him back in the face, poking him in the back with a tyre iron. Seeing Ian like this, trapped within four walls, it was hard to bear, he couldn't help himself from wanting to get on his knees and pray for Ian to just _move,_ speak, even twitch his fingers just once.

Mickey lets out a sob, pressing his mouth against Ian's cold fingers, his lips brushing the gold metal running around his forth finger. “Ian.” He whispers to himself, hoping that the red-head would wake up and reply. But he didn't. “Ian.” He repeats. He turns quickly to his son's, who had fallen asleep in the space of a couple of minutes, and felt his heart beat for the first time.

Clutching helplessly to Ian's hand, he breathes against their tangled fingers. “Man, I need you.” He confesses, closing his eyes and focusing on the steady beeping of the monitor next to the bed. He lets out a wet laugh, looking up towards Ian's expressionless face. “You're going to fucking kill me. John came round with some fucking idiot, speaking bullshit about taxes and fees, I got rid of him though.” He leaves a pause, as if waiting for Ian to answer. “I signed the contract.”

The beeping of the machine kept steady, not wavering or giving Mickey a signal that Ian knew he was there, or _heard_ him. There was a theory, that Ian once told him, that when people are in comas they can hear what's going on around them, but they can't respond. That speaking to them can draw them out of it, that a single voice and give that person a will to wake up. Mickey knew he sounded like a idiot, that speaking to someone who couldn't possibly hear him was utterly useless, but when there is hope you've got to reach for it, and Mickey was reaching for Ian.

Running his finger over Ian's ring, Mickey lets out a shaky spiel, “You said no fighting. I know that. I mean, man, I fucking agreed to that, but I _need_ to do this, Ian.” He glances over to his two son's, both whistling through their noses as they slept. “For them, for _you.”_

As his finger runs across the gold band, wrapped around Ian's fourth finger, a sudden memory floods his mind – a memory that he engraved into his mind.

 

_Mickey's hands are shaking, he can't behold the grin smacked against his face as he looks towards Ian. He looked even more beautiful that possible; his suit was fitted to his figure, his hair was brighter than the sun, combed back swiftly. His smile matched Mickey's, teeth baring as he let out a chuckle softer than a cloud. Mickey takes the ring from the small pillow Yevgeny was baring, he brings it up and places it at the tip of Ian's finger._

_Letting out a breath, he starts, eyes locked to Ian's. “I Mickey Milkovich, take thee Ian Gallagher to be my husband.” Ian giggles and Mickey feels his heart flutter. “To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, in joy and sorrow, and I promise my love for you.”_

_Ian's hand shakes as Mickey pushes the ring to the top of his finger, his thumb brushing over the pale skin. Mickey winks, smirking as he spoke the last line of the vow. “With this ring, I take you as my fucking husband, for as long as we both shall live.”_

_The room erupts into laughter; Fiona is sobbing on the first pew, trying to dry her eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. Lip is shaking his head, mumbling “idiot” under his breath. Iggy is yelling profanities, hollaring and throwing his fist in the air.  Mandy sat in her blue, floaty dress, trying to hold back the emotions that threatened to break. Ian is choking on his sobs, trying to breathe back his tears, Mickey feels himself welling up, proud of their path._

_The vicar closes his book, “You may kiss the groom.”_

_Mickey palms Ian's cheek before he pulls him closer, softly pressing his lips onto Ian's, his heart glowing beneath his shirt, thumping fast._

 

Mickey clenches his eyes shut as the memory invades his mind, a tear escapes and runs down his cheek, falling against his closed lips. He's gotten used to the salty taste over the last couple of days, it almost felt natural to feel it against his cheeks. He shifts in his seat, pulling himself closer to the bed. He feels himself repeating Ian's words, “I _love_ you.” He breathes, eyes closing as the words poured from his mouth. “You're all I fucking care about. The four of us. That's it, Ian. That's all that matters.” He kisses the back of Ian's hand, cracked lips against soft skin. “I'm going to win this fight, man, for _all_ of us.”

If there was any hope left, Mickey hoped that he could do just that.

 

***

_**Two Weeks Later...** _

 

Mickey's fragile body is slammed into the ropes, the blood from his nose clogging up his passage to breathe. His back cracks as the hard, tense material strikes his spine, his arms instinctively coming up to protect his face. His opponent rushes over, his teeth hidden with his blue gum-shield, and throws harsh jabs into his face, hitting over and over. Mickey stumbles, his movements too slow and too sloppy to dodge each sharp jab. His spit flies from his mouth as he hunches over at the harsh blow to his jaw, his eyes are clamming slut, blood dripping from the cut against his lid.

Trying to block each hit, Mickey feels his body getting tired. The crowd is yelling towards him, the screaming ringing through his ears but this time it wasn't helpful, it was draining. His opponent throws in a couple more jabs, catching his chest and underneath his chin. He can hear Tony yelling instructions towards him, over and over, but he can't make out what he's saying over the intense ringing echoing through his ears.

Mickey rolls his shoulders back, ready to throw in his own hit, but the guy is too fast, striking him under the chin, knocking him back. His jabs are sharp, hitting him in the chest, winding him. Mickey falls back, his body hitting off the ropes as his opponent continued to hit him.

Tony yells out, “Get off the ropes, Mickey! Get off the fucking ropes!”

The commentator is rambling off, his words shallow, “ _This is Mickey Milkovich, fighting after the sudden tragedy of his husband being sent to critical care. No aggression. He's just taking the hits from Mandela, his back permanently at the ropes...”_

With all his strength, Mickey stumbles from the side, jabbing his fist out but missing his target. Mandela strikes a punch into his face, hitting repeatedly against the ropes. Mickey feels the blood trickling down his face, his eyes barely open and failing to see the incoming hits. His hands fumble around, trying to withheld a protection but too weak to lift. The room around him moves almost in slow-motion, the opponents fists slowly hitting into his chest, collapsing his defence. His hands fall at his sides as he took each hit, his body unable to move or retaliate.

Mickey faintly hears Tony call out, “End this _now!”_

A fist strikes the left side of his face, pushing him back against the ropes. Internally he's shattering, screaming _I can't give up. Don't you fucking give in to this._ He tries to move but Mandela quickly punches him in the side, his face up-close, thriving. Mickey curls to the side as each punch hits him hard in the chest, jab after jab, hit after hit. Mandela chucks another hit, but Mickey leans back and dodges it, leaping forward and wrapping himself around him.

He turns Mandela towards the ropes, pushing him against them before he throws in his own punch. The bell rings for the end of the round but Mickey keeps hitting, his adrenaline finally starting to kick in. The referee rushes over, putting his hands between them and pushing them apart. Mickey feels himself wanting to hit him harder, punch the living shit out of him, because finally he was able to release the anger and weight from within him. The referee pushes him across the ring, pinning him to the ropes. Tony jumps to the ring, running over towards Mickey and gripped at his swinging wrists. Struggling, Tony manages to get him to his corner, sitting him down against the small stool.

Mickey can't suppress his anger, he feels his blood boiling, his heart running faster than an Olympic runner. He uses his will to try stand up, pushing against Tony's shielding arms. “Let me fucking _have_ him! Let me fucking _fight!”_ He needed to do this; he needed to win.

Tony crouches before him, placing his hands against his lower arms as the medic rushed over and dabbed the bleeding cut at his lid. “Right, Mick. You've got to fucking focus, man.” He grabs the water from the medic, pouring it over Mickey's lips. “You hear me, huh?”

The room is spinning, the screams growing louder at Mickey's ears. He feels sick, his body wanting to hurl over, as his eye-sight is clouded by his blood. He sips at the water poured over his face, and rocks against the stool as Tony continues to speak lowly, trying to persuade him. “Listen, Mick. I'm not going to fucking watch this. I'm your fucking brother, I ain't going to watch this happen to you. Not to us. Mickey-”

Mickey spits into a bucket, shaking his head as the adamant hand dabs against his gaping cut. He's hearing Tony's words, just about, and he feels his body rejecting it. He rolls his shoulders back, trying to ground the remaining energy to the surface. He spits into the bucket again, reminding himself of each tactic he had taught himself over the years. _He had to do this. He had to fight._

Tony pushes his chin up, looking into his eyes that were almost painted red. “Look, Mick. If you don't show me something out there, I'm going to call it.” Mickey shakes his head, trying to control his laboured breathing. Tony claps his heads, trying to get his attention. “Wake the fuck up, Mickey! If you don't show me something, we're done, we have to _call_ it.”

There was no way Mickey was going to let him call it. He couldn't quit. This needed to be done, this needed to happen. He tips his head back, letting the medic check his eyes, he spits out his gum-shield and mumbles, “Don't call it, man.”

“Huh?”

Mickey tries to speak but the result is almost nothing. He moans out, his voice a slur as he tries to refuse what Tony was asking him to do. He shakes his head rapidly, trying to rid of the hands fumbling around his head. _He was not fucking calling it. He needed to do this._

Tony grunts, moving closer. His face was hard, concerned even. “Mickey, what the fuck are we doing here?” His voice drowns out, as if locked behind a glass door. “I've got to end this shit, Mickey. I can't let his fucking happen. You hear me?”

Flashes strike his mind; Ian's smile, the kids running around in the garden laughing, Ian's lips, Iggy cheering and yelling with the winning belt in his hands, Yevgeny hugging him, Owen clutching to him, counting his cuts, Ian laughing. Then it changes – Ian's body laying cold against the floor, blood soaked into his shirt and smeared across his face. Mickey clenches his eyes shut, trying to block it out – he needed no distractions, he needed to do this.

But they don't go away – they trap him in a room with four walls, closing in.

Mickey turns his head to the side, looking between the ropes and towards the crowd. He looks over to the familiar spot that he knew Ian should be sat in. The seat is empty, nothing but a plastic, blue chair at the edge of the ring. Without Ian there, he had no hope, he had nothing that believed in him enough to help him win. His hope was nothing more than a empty, plastic blue chair.

His vision is blurred, but when he moves his gaze towards where John is sitting, he feels his blood boil and turn into fire as it rushed helplessly around his body. Next to John sat Jay Jones. Next to John sat the fucker who put Ian in a hospital bed. Next to John sat the man who shattered his kids lives. Next to John sat the fucker Mickey wanted to kill.

John turns to Jay, shaking his head. “He keeps looking around for Ian.”

Jay rubs a hand over his face, “He's loosing his fucking mind, man.”

Mickey turns back, his anger rising up to the surface, claiming him. The ring-girl walks around with _round 4_ written against the large card she held up above her head. Mickey shoves his gum-shield back into his mouth, his teeth baring hard against the plastic. Tony senses Mickey's shift, he stands up, speaking down to him. “Mickey, you've got to keep your gloves up. Stay off the fucking ropes.” He ruffles Mickey's hair before letting him step up off the stool.

Water and blood drips off him as he rises from the stool. The medics and Tony step under the ring, standing at the side. Mickey feels the room move slowly around him, his legs moving faster than his mind. He stumbles into his position, eyes locked to his opponent bouncing against his legs in the opposite corner. He hears nothing – silence invading him and seizing him. The bell rings out and weakly he raises his gloves, moving slowly towards the other man.

He knows he's body is giving up; he knows that this might be the end. There was no way he could give up, not now. He needed this. His vision blurs and the opponent is nothing but a figure. Then suddenly, he's hit with a wave – Yevgeny's voice is ringing through the silence, over and over, suffocating him.

_It's not okay, though, is it?_

Then his walls start to collapse. His body gives in. The silence drowns him, the darkness flooding into his lungs, infecting his blood. He drops his arms, letting them fall flimsy at his sides. The ringing sound increases, blasting into his ear-drums. A punch hits hard against his jaw, causing him to stumble against his feet. Another two hits, all in slow-motion, slam into his face, blood and spit falling from his mouth at the force. His vision nearly cuts out as he hits against the corner of the ring, a punch flying into his cheek. He grips to the rope for a second, before falling forward and throwing his weak fists towards his opponent. Mandela blocks them, crowding his space before hitting him hard at the nose. Mickey's hand knocks back, his body slamming into the corner post. 

Mickey places his hands at his face, trying to block the other man, but they fall weak and betray him. Tony's screaming behind him, trying to call towards the referee, but Mickey stumbles forward and tries not to give in. Whilst the bell rings out, the opponent slams one last punch at Mickey, sending him down against the floor of the ring. Tony grips to his chest, pulling him up. The referee stands before him, waving his hand in the air. 

Barely able to speak, Mickey utters, “Don't call it.” 

The referee shakes his hand, his hand still waving. “That's it. It's done.” 

_No._ Mickey felt his body tense, his blood thriving off the anger that he couldn't control. He felt himself lose it, his body no longer his, as he pulled his head back and slammed it against the referee's. The guy does down, clutching to his nose as numerous people ushered towards Mickey, pulling him to the corner of the ring. Tony grabs him, pulling him into a hug, trying to control him as he squirmed and wiggled to get out of the hold. 

“Fuck!” Mickey yelled out. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” 

Mickey had let them down. The world was falling apart and the ground beneath the four of them was falling, crashing and burning into a pit of darkness, and it was  _all_ Mickey's fault. 

***

Mickey pulled his knees up towards his chest, his head buried in his hands, as the water from the shower head beat down against his bare back. Everything ached, his back, his face, his legs,  _everything,_ including his heart. He had let them all down; the kids, Ian,  _himself._ His body wretched with uncontrollable sobs, his wails loud against the rushing hot water. 

_That was it._

_He had failed to protect them._

_Everything was falling apart and the cracks were too big to put back together._

_There was no way to fix this._

_He needed to fix this._

He flings his hand back, hitting it against the wall, trying to get a grip of something real. His body is shaking furiously, the blood from his face washing over his skin and wallowing in the puddle beneath him. “ _Ian,”_ he calls out, waiting for the red-head to answer. “ _Ian? Yev? Owen?"_ When he hears nothing he begins to panic, trying to look outside the shower-room to see if anyone was out there.

He's hit with a deadly silence.

“Tony?” He calls out, eyes clammed shut with dried blood and swelling. “Is Iggy here?” His voice is the only sound throughout the place; only the rushing of the water hitting down against his bruised skin conflicting with it. The tears are still streaming down his cheeks, his heart shattered into pieces, and he couldn't feel a thing.

“ _Anybody?!”_

That's when he realises; he's alone.


	6. Slaughterhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Chapter 6!!!! wooooo
> 
> healthy (not so healthy) tips -
> 
> 1) Angst again, I know, but I promise good things will happen - you gotta have the bad before the good  
> 2) A little Yev POV which I enjoyed - but I wanted to give you a little insight into what he was feeling  
> 3) I'm not really sure how family services really work - but I researched - and I changed a little bit (( you will see that involves family members) so don't kill me if im not empirically correct  
> 4) Things will get better - but obviously Mickey is still in shock and massively blames himself for putting Ian into the hospital, but finally realises that his kids need him (unfortunately at the wrong time)  
> 5) I'd like to hear in the comments who you think came into the house at the end of the chapter? I love leaving it at a cliff-hanger don't I.  
> 6) I love reading your comments, so don't be shy to share your feedback or theories on what might happen! You never know I may take them in account and use them as inspiration for upcoming chapters!  
> 7) I'm sorry for the slow updates but with college at the moment I haven't had enough time to finish it quickly, I usually do a short section each day, so please wait for me:)

The lonely, four walls are closing in; the shadows from the window's drawing closer and closer, growling and hissing and baring their teeth. Mickey felt his body shudder and jolt each time his rough, bust lips curved and opened to form the shape of each word. The room was empty, apart from him and Ian and the beeping machine that echoed through Mickey's ears, even when he wasn't sat beside the bed. The nurses had let him in, after they forced him into a check-up for his swelled eye and cracked tooth, and told him that Ian was doing better today – that his heart beat was steady, each beat paced but still a little slow.

Yevgeny and Owen had been there prior to Mickey. Lip had text him telling him the kids were going back home with Carl and that the key to the house was under the small plant pot. Mickey felt himself empty – he wanted to see his kids, now more than ever, now that he had lost it in the ring and his world was slowly swallowing him up.

He pulls his small, plastic chair up to the side of Ian's bed, his leg clicking out of place as his body clenched. Hissing, he reaches down towards his knee and knocks the slightly disjointed knee – that somehow popped out all the time, despite it never being hit or kicked at in the ring. After putting it in place, he flickers his eyes over to Ian; his breath jagged as the image before him shocked his system, sending his own heart-beat off the scale and far from normal.

_This_ is what he saw in the ring.  _Ian_ like this. Not Ian when he's smiling and laughing, or shouting profanities and telling Mickey where to go, he had thought of the wrong Ian – the image still haunted him now, the lifeless body, unresponsive, just a slow distant breathing through a thin plastic tube. It wasn't enough. Mickey needed Ian there, with him, with the kids. 

Pulling Ian's cold, lean hand into his, tangling their fingers together, Mickey pressed a rough kiss against the smooth pale skin at the back of Ian's hand. His words come out stuttering, his cut lip providing him with nothing but the sound of a seal trying his best to talk, but he feels his words cut deeper than the gape in his bottom lip, “Man, I fucking lost – I fucking.  _Lost it.”_

Mickey tries to look through his blurred vision, his swelled eye creating a barrier between him and Ian. Then again, there had always been something that wanted to push and barge it's way between them, something to break and split them apart. Ian's still unresponsive, only his chest moving as his body inhaled and exhaled through the tube in his mouth. One of the cracks in Mickey's walls opens deeper, the rocks falling and crashing into the furious waves that slammed against the shore. 

It was as if he was waiting for Ian to answer, as if he was waiting for that snarky come-back and that cheeky, lob-sided grin, but he knew it wouldn't come soon – and that opened the cracks further, everything was falling apart and Mickey  _needed_ Ian to help him sort it – the kids were going to get hurt through this, and Mickey needed to protect them. 

Mickey lets out a small chuckle, glancing towards Ian's lifeless face, “I fucked it. I really  _fucking_ did.” He lets his head fall against their enclosed hands and when he exhales his body shatters into a shake, his throat pushing forward a choked sob. “Man, I fucked it up. I let you down, I let you all fucking down.” 

When he lifts his head, there was a shoot of pain that clocked him straight in the chest. Biting down onto his lip, the taste of metallic, cold blood rinsing in his mouth, Mickey shook his head as the words tumbled like vomit, “That fucking Mandela, man. He kept hitting me against the ropes. He was fucking cheating, he must have. Fucking idiot.” He shakes his head again, the anger rising in his chest making his hand clutch and squeeze against Ian's delicate one. “Iggy was no-where to be seen, don't blame him after I threatened and kicked his ass outside the house-” His glance quickl diverts to Ian, his words cut off, before he bites at his lip, “Shit. I will tell you about that later, long fucking story.” 

With his free-hand he wipes the sweat balanced on his forehead, “John was with that fucking piece of shit, Jay Jones, man – that's where I lost it.” He ducks his head, as if ashamed, and feels the walls pushing closer, the air pushing pressure against his lungs. “You weren't there,” He whispers to himself, into their hands. “You weren't – fuck – that's why I lost it. That's why I stood there like some fucking coward, letting him beat the shit out of me.” 

Mickey grunts at himself – trying to rid of any memory that flashed before his eyes replaying his loss, replaying his cowardly actions – and then feels a tinge of hope rush through his veins. He sits up against the chair, leaning over the edge of the bed, and sweeps a strand of hair from Ian's face, “But, hey, you're coming to the next one, right?” His eyes wash over Ian's facial features, memorising each scratch, even individual freckle, each little dint in his skin. Clearing his throat, Mickey feels the tears brim at his lids, “You're going to wake up, yeah? You're going to open your fucking eyes and tell me what a fucking idiot I am. Aren't you?” 

The cracks start to build in the opposite walls, each threatening to fall like the first one. The shore is filled with rocks, mud, memories, and it's crashing furiously. Mickey feels his heart fall to the pit of his stomach, his chest hallow, and he tries to breathe but the waves around him as drowning him, pulling him away from the shore with it's deadly current. He clutches to Ian's hand, as if to save himself from slipping and falling into the fast, evil current, and brushes his hand through Ian's hair, the soft locks tangling between his fingers, brushing against the small cuts. 

His voice is nothing more than a whisper, his words barely there, but Mickey followed the theory that Ian once told him and spoke despite the fact Ian probably couldn't hear him. “Wake up. You need to  _fucking_ wake up.” A sob escaped his throat, his wet mouth forming a watery, deprived sound. Mickey lets out a huge breath, his head dropping to the top of their intertwined hands – he couldn't watch, see, look at Ian like this. 

For a while, he stays in that silence, just listening to Ian's soft inhales and exhales and using it as a lullaby to drift him off a little. His whole body aches, and the cuts against his eyes bleed against his skin, drying into a crusty surface. Hands still crushing Ian's, he quickly glances up and squints as he looks around the empty, dark room. The chairs from where the Gallagher's were sat were still perched in their places. The chair that he knew Owen and Yevgeny would have sat in was tucked at the opposite side of the bed, Owen's jacket still squished in the seat, the zip dangling and swaying as Mickey's body shook the bed with his shaking structure. 

Mickey needed his kids there – he needed to pull them close and hold them. He needed to see their grinning faces, their giggles that would continue for hours, their little jokes and pranks, he just needed them to be  _there._ He needed them all to be there – he wanted his family back. Mickey feels his body pledge a promise, his mouth pressing delicate kisses against Ian's wrist. “Man, I'll sort it. I sort  _all_ of this shit out. I will, I promise you.” 

***

John's face is red with rage. “You punched the fucking referee, man. You broke his fucking nose.” His shakes his head with disappointment, face scrunching up as he spoke. “You shattered his fucking cheekbone. What the fuck was that about?” 

Mickey sits in his silence on the opposite side of the table, not bothering to look over to his manager. His fingers drum against the glass surface, his vision still blurred and shaky. John had called him as he was leaving the hospital, demanding that he saw him right away. The ringing in his ears grew louder, almost deafening, a repeated vibration. 

His manager leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I gave you the biggest deal of the year, man. You fucked it up. It's going to be a year until your suspension is up, that means zero income.” 

The cracks start to widen. Mickey flickers his eyes up, trying to look through the swelled skin that formed around his eye. John carries on speaking, his face suddenly lacking sympathy, he looked as if he was a different person. “Listen. Violence towards a referee is fucked up.” He slaps his hand against the table. “He's suing you for having traumatic, emotional problems. They're freezing all your bank accounts, immediately, and to top that shit off the network is suing you for breaching your contract.” 

Mickey shakes his head – his body forming a layer of sweat against his skin – he clenches his eyes shut and tries to take it in, but it's all spewing out, his body rejecting it.  _This was not fucking happening. No fucking way._ He knows the alcohol brewing in his stomach is adding to the mixture, and feels betrayed when he fails to give him something to work with and the fact it's lacking the hopeful buzz that makes him invincible. His voice comes out jagged, low and hoarse. “Man, what the fuck?” 

John's voice shifts to a smoother tone, his body leaning forward against the table. “Listen, Mick. You're going to have to sell the cars, the furniture, hell – you might even have to get rid of the house. You need to cover the debts.” There's a glint in John's eyes that doesn't look familiar, as if he had been hiding behind a mask for the last couple of years. 

At the mention of his house, their  _home,_ Mickey feels his body crumble and shake with intense refusal. “Not my fucking house. No. I'm not selling the house.” The ache in his eye is getting increasing heavier. “I'll sell everything else, I don't give a shit what, but I'm not fucking selling that house. That's Yevgeny's and Owen's  _home,_ Ian's home,  _my_ fucking home. I ain't selling it.” 

Without hesitation, or any consideration that Mickey was slowly crumbling into pieces, John shakes his head, “Doesn't matter, Mick. There's nothing you can fucking do.” Again, his tone changes, his body language signalling to Mickey that he was hiding something, something that could drastically remove all sense of security from Mickey. “Man, you can keep the house, but everything else – it's got to fucking go, no questions. It's going to be taken anyway.” 

Mickey feels betrayed, cheated, as if the world was purposely punishing him for getting Ian into the state he was, as if slowly the world was crushing him and suffocating in his own consequences. John was chatting utter bullshit – he didn't have to sell anything, he would  _fix_ this. 

“This is some serious shit, man.” John cracks through his trance, voice rough. 

The sick rises in Mickey's throat, the taste of whisky against his lips toxic, and he feels himself caving in. “No, No.” He leans back against his chair, wincing as his voice becomes almost unrecognisable, pleading. “I'll get Tony, I'll get ready for the next fight. I-” 

John instantly cuts him off, his hand firmly out, stopping him in his speech. “Mickey, I'm not even sure whether or not I'm going to take you on right now.”

Mickey shifts in his seat, his skin getting itchy, his heart rate boiling up. “Wait, what?” The chair scrapes against the floor as his body slumps harshly into the seat – John wasn't looking at him, his hand was planted hard against the table, and his eyes were distant – Mickey felt the thunder coming, he felt the darkness already taking over. 

Letting out an exhausted breath, John confesses, “Tony's working with another fighter.”

The words cannon ball into his chest – shattering the fragile shield that held it together. Even his own brother had fucked off – just left him, gave in, gave up on him, just ran off like Mickey wasn't even there anymore. “What the fuck? Who?” He asks, his voice panicked but filled with a loud, rumbling rage that pushed through the trained barriers of his body. 

John ducks his gaze, his face washing over with guilt. “Jay Jones.” 

The ground beneath Mickey's feet is suddenly ripped beneath him – his feet slipping against the tiled floor as his body fell heavy against the chair. Everyone was against him. They were all plotting to rid of him, to erase him completely. His face scrunches up into confusion – the anger underlining his features - “You working with him too?” 

Hesitating at first, John adjusts his watch before nodding, “Yes.” Mickey's hands clench into fists, John quickly diverts into his explanation. “Mickey, you know if it makes money, it makes sense.” 

Mickey can't help but just  _stare._ John was  _family._ John had been there through thick and thin. He had been there when Ian got so low and Mickey couldn't handle it. He had been there for Ian when Mickey was too weak, too broken, from fights and Ian found it hard to look at him. He had been there for the kids, each first day, each birthday, each play – he had been there for all of them, and here he was  _betraying_ them. 

John fiddles with the gold plate of his watch, his eyes reluctant to catch Mickey's stare. “It's just business, Mickey.” 

There's something in his eyes that tell Mickey different; as if John had been given a script to read from and is rehearsing it without any mistakes. All the hairs on his body stand up, the cold breeze of John's lies pricking at each spot. Mickey shakes his head, his teeth chattering together as his hands clenched harder, the pink skin turning white. 

Running a hand across his head, John sighs, “Man, I know you miss Ian. Aright, I miss him too.” He taps a hard finger against the stack of Mickey's debt letters, “If he was here he would be fucking disgusted in you. We need you to pull yourself together. You need  _help,_ Mickey.” 

Mickey sloppily pulls the newspaper that had been lying against the table towards him, his mind blocking out each word that John spewed his way. Through his lost vision, he can see himself spread across the front-page – his fist hitting into the side of the referees face – and his body curls within itself. When Ian's name tips off John's tongue, Mickey feels himself grow protective, his body spawning spikes all over his body. 

_Help?_ Mickey didn't need help. Mickey needed to fucking  _fix_ this. 

Pushing himself up from his chair, legs nearly giving way, he snarls, “Don't fucking talk about Ian like that.” Stumbling into a standing position, he takes one last look at the piling debts, his face shudders away in disgust. “You know what? I fucking quit. Fuck you.” 

John doesn't move from his spot in his chair, his hand falling flimsy at the side, unaffected. “You can't do this shit no more, Mickey.” 

Mickey can't get the betrayal out his head – the fact that John was happily working with the guy that put Ian in the hospital - “No, fuck you.” He calls out, moving over towards the door where two security guards stood. One of them nods towards John, but Mickey pushes against his chest, “Get the fuck out of my way.” He limps down the dark hall, his legs dragging against the marble floor. His mind is racing, chattering, eating away at him, and he feels as if his body is too heavy to carry. 

The tunnel is growing darker and Mickey's walking in the wrong direction – he's not walking towards the light, the light got put out, he's walking towards the darkness, slowly letting it seep in to his bones, slowly dragging him away with the strong current of the waves. 

He follows the path over to the elevator, his finger shaking as he pressed the button to the ground floor. The security are not far behind him, glaring towards him, hands at their sides where their guns rested in their holsters. Mickey scoffs, shaking his head, “Don't even fucking bother, it's a waste of bullets.” 

The lift doors slide open. 

 

***

The engine rumbles beneath him as he turns the steering wheel at each curve of the road. The road is dark, just the light from his head-lights casting a yellow glow against the black surface. Mickey's foot is pressed hard against the peddle, the trees and houses surrounding him nothing but a blurred painting passing by. It didn't matter because he couldn't see anyway. An empty bottle of whisky rested in the passenger seat, the last drops leaking onto the cushion. Mickey's head is dropping back and forth as the sinking feeling weighted against his head, his hands twitching and shaking around the wheel. 

He manages to drive to the house, the gates already open, the garden quiet, the lights all out. The wheels crunch against the stones scattered in the path and just as he gets past the metal gates he pulls the car to a halt. His phone buzzes in his pocket but he doesn't dare to look. His eyes are clammed shut, just a small slit of light threading through. His hands clasp tightly around the steering wheel, his feet loosing hanging over the peddles, tempting him.

The house is dark – all the lights turned out, the door pressed shut. Mickey scans his eyes around the wide garden, taking in it's emptiness, looking from tree to tree. The darkness walks through his mind freely, taking over him, taking his only sense of logic. He thinks about the nights events, what he had done, what had  _happened_ and he can't help but feel numb inside.

He stares towards the large oak tree – just outside the house – and he remembers it. Ian had wanted to keep it after Mickey suggested cutting it down. He had this weird love for looking after the planet, keeping the environment safe around them. One day Yevgeny had climbed it, right up to the highest branch and couldn't get down. Owen had ran into the house, yelling and crying, calling out out to Mickey and Ian that his brother was hopelessly stuck in that tree. They had ran out, fast, their eyes locking towards their son scrambling for a hold against the branch he was perched on. Mickey hadn't hesitated, it was instinctive, to run over and open his arms wide as the branch collapsed beneath Yevgeny's weight. Ian had screamed out, his voice lined with fear, as the boy tumbled from the tree into Mickey's arms. That fear ran over Mickey all over again – his heart beating rapidly as it did when Yevgeny's small, lanky body fell from that tree. Just like that day, Mickey couldn't control it. 

Mickey pulls his hand against the wheel. The light from the outside of the car shone against his gold ring, the metal dinted and scratched but still whole around his finger. His head drops with the weight of the alcohol and rattling voices and his mind flashes back -

 

_Yevgeny's little grin is wider than possible, his pale cheeks all flushed. He reaches forward and pokes Mickey's nose, a laugh bubbling against his lips. “I love you.”_

_In the space of two seconds, Owen squeals, rolling back against the bed, his laugh sweet and like music to Mickey's ears. “I love you!”_

_Mickey lets out a chuckle, his face starting to hurt with his smile, and looks over to Ian. The red-head snickers, pulling their youngest into his lap, “I love you.”_

 

Mickey bites down into the skin of his hand, his teeth breaking past the skin and leaving a deep, red mark. His eyes clench shut and flashes strike him -

_Mickey, Let's go home._

A tear falls past his lips, soaking into the damp skin of his neck, and he suddenly he feels his body moving without his own consent. He's watching himself move, his own hands wrapping around the steering wheel, his feet pressing close to the peddles. Then his hands drop, falling at his sides, and his back presses against the seat. It's like an out-of-body experience, his mind completely taken over, his arms and legs moving as if held by strings. Then his foot slams down against the peddle, the car speeding and moving beneath him. Closing his eyes, he rests his head against the back of the chair, the sound of the car vibrating and invading his ears.

The car flies down the path, taking off into the patch of grass before the big oak tree. The smell of rubber burning elopes the car, suffocating him. He doesn't brace himself for what he knows is coming, instead he just relaxes into the chair, letting his mind take over. Then the crash slams directly into the bark of the tree. Mickey's body is thrown forward, his seat belt crushing into his ribs, his head knocking against the wheel.

Smoke bursts from the front of the car, the alarm blaring out against the silence of the house. There's blood smeared across the steering wheel, blinding him, and Mickey groans out in excruciating pain.

***

It's almost three and he knows his dad would kick his ass for being up this late. Carl had taken them home, promising them he would stay until their dad got home – but it looked like he was never coming home, like he had just disappeared, and he was starting to worry whether he would see him ever again because he felt so _long_ since he had seen him. He needed his father, he needed him now more than ever, because he felt himself drowning and feeling hopeless because his dad was hooked up to machines, dying, not being there to tell him goodnight, not being there to turn the lamp on and kiss into his hair.

Yevgeny reaches over to the side and grabs his phone. Unlocking the screen, he feels his body shake a little when his eyes clasp to the picture – him and his daddy Ian, smiling as they sat by the pool – and he misses him, so fucking much, and he's scared that without him his daddy Mickey would fall, break, go crazy and just forget about them. Yevgeny wasn't stupid; he knew what was going on, he knew that someone had shot his father, and he knew that it was tearing his dad apart.

Quickly, worry taking over, he texts his dad-

_**Daddy? Where are you?** _

He gives it a couple of minutes, eyes locked to the screen in hope that a message would pop up. Nothing came. Yevgeny felt something fall in his chest, he didn't get what it was, but it scared him. He wanted his parents back, he wanted them to hold him. He wanted it to be _good_ again.

Then he hears a loud, blaring alarm come from outside. It fled through the whole house, a deafening signal that something wasn't right. Climbing out of bed, he pulls on his dads shirt, flicking on the lamp next to him. It was probably Uncle Carl, or some teenagers messing around – that's what dad would always say anyway – but the alarm was not stopping, it wasn't moving.

Walking towards the frame of his bedroom door, he peers down the dark hallway. “Uncle Carl?” He calls out, hoping that it was just his Uncle doing _bad_ stuff like his dad would always say he did. Instead of a voice, he hears the front door click open. He rushes down the hall and peers through into Owen's room; Owen and his Uncle Carl were curled up in the small single bed, both fast asleep and oblivious to the racket outside.

That's when he wished he listened to his father and never watched those horror films – he felt as if he was in one, that some scary monster was going to pop out and eat him. He curls his arms around his small chest and walks further down the hall. He flicks each light on as he passes, hoping that monsters were suddenly allergic to light and if they came out he would be safe. Suddenly, he's stopped in his tracks when he hears a loud, groaning sound.

_Was that the monster?_

A loud thud echoes against the marble floor and Yevgeny bites down against his lip as he pushes himself towards the top of the stairs. He only wishes his father was here to pull him up into his arms, assuring him that there was nothing out there that could hurt him because _he protected the family,_ and he hoped that somehow whatever it was crying out at the bottom of the stairs, it couldn't be worse than his father in a hospital bed.

When he reaches the top, he leans over the banister, adjusting his sight to the figure curled up against the marble floor. Then he realises. “Dad?”

It's not a monster with bloody jaws and long fingernails that could scratch and tear apart your skin. It wasn't a hungry werewolf with deadly eyes. It wasn't a mass murder with a knife, ready to kill them all.

It wasn't a monster.

It was his dad.

That scared him more.

Yevgeny runs down the stairs, taking two at a time. His dad is quiet, blood clasping over his skin like a red, torn blanket. “Dad?!” He calls out again, tumbling down the steps. When his father doesn't say anything he begins to panic. “Dad?” He falls to his knees, pulling his dad over into his lap. “Dad?”

His father doesn't speak, a low, lifeless groan escapes his lips and Yev feels fear run through his bones. He couldn't lose his dad. He couldn't let him die. He needed to _fix_ this. He had already nearly lost his role model, his father, and now he was loosing his saviour – the only one that could protect them all.

“Daddy!” Yevgeny shouts, slapping his hand against his fathers face. He sobs loudly, his breathing hitched as he looked around for something to help him. He didn't know what to do. What could he do? “Wake up. Wake up, daddy!” He flinches as he notices the blood smeared across the floor – he had never seen blood that close, not that _much._ He tries to pull himself together. “Dad, dad. What happened? Daddy?”

There was something wrong with his dad. Something bad. He didn't know what it was but he was hurt and he needed help. His dad needed _help._ Yevgeny continues to slap against his cheeks, shoving at his chest, trying not the flinch and jump at the cuts against his dads body. He screams, “Uncle Carl! _Please!_ Somebody help me! _Somebody!”_

***

There's voices around him; muffled and trapped. There's a light in his eyes, blinding him, waking him. When he blinks he sees a face; unfamiliar, close, their mouth moving as they tried to form words that Mickey could hear. There's something in his nose, around his wrists, clasping him down. His whole body hurts; everything aching and shooting all over his body.

The main hovering above him calls out to him, “Can you hear me, Mr Milkovich?”

Mickey can't move his mouth, he can't speak. Everything hurts. He couldn't remember what happened – all he could think of was leaving John's office and downing a bottle of whisky. Everything else was a blur. There's four or five people rushing around him, asking him things, wrapping bandages around him.

The man flashes a light into his eyes, “Can you tell me what medication you're on, sir?” He moves the flash-light over Mickey's face, drawing his attention. “What did you take, sir?”

Flashes of quick, split memories struck his mind. He struggles in the hold of the nurses, trying to break free from the wires wrapped around him. He needed to go. He needed to go _home._ He could see Yevgeny's face, screaming, crying, trying to wake him up, and he needed to see him. He needed to hold him. He needed to _fix_ it.

Through his fuzzy vision, Mickey can make out a police officer stood beside him. “It's okay, sir. Your kids are safe. Your brother-in-law was the one who made the 911 call.” Mickey doesn't get it, he doesn't understand. The officer nods his head, carrying on. “You were in an accident.”

“No. No. _No.”_ Mickey struggles, pushing himself up from the bed. He hated hospitals. He didn't want to be hooked up to machines. He needed to go _home._ “Get the fuck off me!” He yells out, trying to push off the numerous hands grabbing to his wrists, pinning him back.

The officer is still speaking, their images clouded with a mist that covered Mickey's eyes. He grabs to Mickey's flailing arms, “We found you with a loaded weapon, Mr Milkovich, under the influence and with two minors present.”

The room starts spinning, the lights passing by fast and quick, as if he was travelling on an express train watching as the fields disappeared. His head grows heavy and his body is too weak to fight the urging hands of those around him. His jaw goes slack as he calls out – his voice quiet - “Yev? _Yev?”_ He leans against the strong hands against his chest, pushing him down. “Owen? _Owen?!”_

The doctor tries to lie him down, “Sir-”

“ _NO!”_ Mickey cries out, struggling and squirming. “I need to get home. I need to _go.”_

The officer hovers above him, sympathetic, “It's okay. Child services have them. They are looking after them. You don't need to worry-”

Mickey starts to thrash against the bed, pushing against the hands. All he saw was red. He felt each wall tumble to the crowd, the shore overflowing with broken rocks, crashing and swarming over the land, taking over. “No. No. No! Fucking get off me! _No!”_

He rips the tube from inside his nose and yells out, angry, almost monstrous. “ _No!”_

“Hold him down-”

“Get his legs-”

Mickey kicks his feet against the sheets, pushing and shoving at the people around him. He curls his body to the side trying to roll off the bed but someone pins him back, their hands tight against his wrists. He's screaming now, his voice loud and hopeless, “No! Get the fuck off me! Get _Off!”_

A doctor walks over with a needle in his hand, he tests it quickly before stabbing it into the vein in Mickey's arm. Mickey squirms, his arm tensing as he felt the liquid infect his blood. The hands pin him down and he's trapped, body unable to move, hopeless, weak. Then the voices around him go bleak, quiet, muffled into nothing. They were all speaking but there was no sound, just the beep of a machine.

His whole body slumps into numbness, his limbs falling loose and clumsy. Mickey felt himself fall relaxed, as if the weights on his arms and legs were so heavy and that it felt normal. He blinks a couple of times, trying to rid of the blood that blinded his left eye, and his jaw falls slack. That's when he sees a figure before him – it's familiar – and it's Ian. The red-head is wearing the same suit he had the night he was shot – the red was still there against his side – and his head was in his hands, a small sob echoing out as he looked over Mickey.

“ _Ian.”_ He mumbles but it doesn't come out as he wanted it to. Ian's position changes each time he blinks, his sobs growing louder and his body moving closer. Just as Mickey sees his mouth ready to open, ready to speak, his vision is cut off and his body falls weak.

 

***

_**Two days later...** _

 

It had been ten years since Mickey had seen the inside of a court – ten years since he had faced a bull-faced judge. The room felt like home – somehow – but it reminded him of the days where he would be locked up, unable to see anything, hidden away from Ian. They had kept him in for two days; handcuffed to a hospital bed. No one had called, or saw him, and he was starting to think it was all part of a dream. He needed _Ian._ He had failed him and he needed him to forgive him.

The judge chattered away to Mickey's defendant whilst he slumped back in his chair, his suit slanted and messy, biting at the skin in the corner of his nail. He needed to _fix_ this. He hadn't saw the kids in what felt like forever, and they wouldn't let him see Ian just yet. Everything had fallen apart – Mickey had fallen apart, and he couldn't stop himself from falling deeper.

The door opens and a woman leads through, both Owen and Yevgeny trotting in behind her. Mickey doesn't realise through his own thoughts, until Owen cries out, “Daddy!” Mickey immediately pushes himself up from his chair, rushing towards his two son's. They looked worn out, but both equally beautiful. His heart swelled at the sight of them – he loved them so much, and yet he had failed to show them that. They were precious and he had to promise them he could protect them.

The judge yells, calmly, “Sit down, Mr Milkovich.”

An officer rushes behind Owen and pulls him back, away from Mickey, and the lady who had brought them in pulled Yevgeny to the side. A pair of hands grip to his shoulders and shove him backwards, urging him away from them. Mickey tries to barge past the hold, “What the fuck are you doing, I want to see my fucking son's-”

Owen squirms in the hold of the officer, who places him down against a seat,“Daddy!”

Yevgeny pushes against the woman's hands, glaring towards her. “I just want to hug my dad.”

The judge sighs, “Mr Corbin can you get your client to sit down, please.”

Mickey gives in, letting his lawyer move him towards their table and seats. He doesn't bother looking towards the judge. Instead, he looks towards his son's, his eyes welling up, his heart rapidly beating against his chest. He needed to make it up to _them._

Slamming her hammer against the desk, the judge starts. “Let's begin. Matters this morning is provisional custody of Yevgeny Milkovich and Owen Milkovich. Both minors-”

This was bullshit. Mickey didn't understand why he needed to go to court. What he needed to do was get his kids and go to the hospital to see Ian; that's what he needed to do. The judge was rambling off her mouth until Mickey cut through, “”When – when can I get them out-”

The judge slams her hand against her stand, “Don't interrupt me.” Mickey leaves his mouth open, looking back over to Yev and Owen. The judge draws him back, “Mr Milkovich. At this point we can not let your remaining family have custody of the two children, due to the criminal records revealed during investigation. Your husband is in critical care in the ICU system, is that right?”

Mickey's lawyer stands, “Yes, your honour. Ian Milkovich is currently on the life support system, and remains unresponsive.” He sits back down.

Whilst the judge speaks, Mickey looks over to the boys, placing his middle finger up behind his table, as if aiming it towards the judge. They both giggle, Yev pulling his own finger up and hiding it behind the table he sat behind. The lady sat with them places her hands over theirs, glaring towards Mickey.

Slapping his chest, Mickey speaks clearing, hoping. “I want my kids back.” He feels himself laughing at the stupidity of the whole thing – what were they even doing here? “I'm their father. I want my kids back.”

The judge tuts, “Unfortunately that's not enough.”

The darkness threads through, seeping back. Mickey falls back against his chair, biting down at his nails, his eyes repeatedly looking over to Yev who's expression was nothing but crushed. He feels the pit of wolves growling towards him, and _this_ was the last push to which he would fall in and get eaten alive.

Scanning her papers, the judge continues. “This court is aware of the tragedy your family are suffering. Nonetheless, you have shown alarming and dangerous behaviours, whilst having the custody of these two children. Loaded weapons, alcohol, violence. Mr Milkovich will follow a court plan, that the court has designed.”

Mickey feels himself falling deeper. He glances over to Yevgeny and places his hand over his heart. His son does the same, nodding, giving him a weak smile. Mickey knew this wasn't good - he had let them down _again –_ and all hope of fixing it was at zero. He had failed his kids, he had failed Ian in protecting his kids, and he just wanted to fix it.

The judge speak again, “The set plan will include individual counselling as-well as sobriety and anger management classes.” She flips her paper over. “I order that the two minors will remain in child services until Ian Milkovich is well and able to care for the two children, or when Mickey Milkovich has provided the abilities and behaviours of a responsible parent.”

Mickey's body escalates into panic – He's _loosing_ his kids. He's failed to be their protector. He's _loosing_ them. “No. No. No.” He whispers to himself, shaking his head. This couldn't be happening. They were _his_ kids; they were not going to some fucking family services. No way.

“ _What?!”_ Yevgeny yells out, pushing his chair from beneath him.

The judge doesn't default, carrying out her order of hearing. “We will have our next trail in thirty days, where we will have a progress hearing-”

A month. A whole fucking month without his kids. No. No fucking way. Mickey scrapes his chair back, slamming his hand against the top of the table. “Thirty days?!” he yells, “What the fuck does that mean? They're my fucking kids! Let me look after them!”

“Sir, can you not use that language-”

His lawyer pushes his chest, trying to sit him back down but he yells louder, shoving against the officer behind him who slammed his hands against his shoulders. “This is bullshit! This is fucking bullshit! They are _my_ kids!”

Owen starts crying calling out to him. The lady gently holds him, resting him at his hip. An officer pulls at Yevgeny's arm, as he tugged and squirmed to get to his father. He looks over to Mickey, his eyes pleading, “Please, dad, I don't want to go with them.”

Mickey pushes against the firm hands holding him back. He barges through their hands and rushes towards Yev, pulling him into his arms. Yevgeny begins to sob into his shoulder, repeating his words over and over, “Please. I don't want to go with them. I want to stay with you-”

The lawyer darts behind them, “Mickey. Mickey-”

Owen struggles in the woman's arms, “Daddy! Daddy!”

Tightly holding his son, Mickey refuses to let go. Yevgeny cries out into his shoulder, hands tugging at his arms to pull him back. “Daddy! Please don't let them take me. Daddy!” An officer holds onto his shoulders, dragging him away from Mickey. Tears spill from his eyes as Mickey is pinned against the table. “ _Please._ I want to stay with you. Daddy!”

Kicking his legs, thrashing against his position against the table, Mickey screams out, pleading out his entire rage. “Let me just give my son's a hug! Let me to fucking -”

The judge smacks her hammer against her stand, ordering out to the officers holding Mickey to remove him from the court. Yevgeny starts to kick, scream, yell out, his sobs echoing through the near-empty court. “No. No. No. Daddy!” The officer leads Yev towards the door of the court, urging him to follow. Owen is crying, squirming and hitting his little hands against the woman's chest.

“Get the fuck _off_ me!” Mickey knocks his head back, trying hopelessly to break free.

Yevgeny gives a loud, piercing cry, “Daddy! _Please! Please!_ Daddy!”

The officer slams Mickey's head against the table, cuffing his hands behind his back. Mickey looks towards the door, his anger boiled up and uncontrollable, and he feels himself drowning, his body refusing to give in as the shore crashed over him, suffocating him.

His son is scrambling by the door, hitting his chest against the hands that pulled him towards it. His face is scrunched up with emotion, his face red and covered with tears. “No! Get off me! Daddy!” The officer scoops Yevgeny into his arms, his hand beneath his legs and pulls the door open. As they take him out, Yevgeny pleads to his father – his voice broken, “I want to live with you! I _want_ to live with my dad!”

Mickey scuffled against the top of the table, attempting to get free. “No! Yev! Owen!” He tries to scramble his way out, the cuffs against his wrists cutting into his skin. He growls, his voice monstrous, body falling weak, “Get the fuck off me! Get the fuck _off-”_

Then the door slammed shut. He had fallen into the pit of wolves.

***

Numb. That's all he felt.

They had taken him to the hospital; apparently they had rang Lip and told him the situation. Mickey had broken free from the officers hold at one point and tried to run to find the kids, but ended up being floored, pinned down, and chucked into the back of a cop car. They had told him that he could only see them once a week – a Tuesday – and that if he broke that contract or the set plan the course had devised, he would be imprisoned.

When Mickey walked through the crowded hall of the hospital, rubbing at his marked wrists, tears spilling down his tears, he felt nothing. His mind repeated itself. The voices telling him, reminding him, that he had failed them. That he had caused this. He had failed to protect them and now they were in some family services that wasn't their _home._ All he could think about was getting them back, holding them, protecting them. That's all he could do. That's what he was going to do.

He gets to the waiting area by Ian's room and is welcomed with a punch to the face. His whole body is knocked backwards, the pain nothing compared to the hallow feeling in his chest. Once his vision is partially back he's faced with Lip. The Gallagher was stood, his face red, his eyes puffy, his body physically trembling with anger. Mickey accepted it, he waited for his reaction to burst.

Lip shoved at his chest hard, his voice sharp, stern. “What the _fuck_ happened?!”

Mickey remains unaffected, taking each hit. Expressionless, he spoke, “I need to see Ian.”

Lip grips at the collar of Mickey's shirt, pulling him closer, his eyes tinted with black. He words spit back at Mickey, “Like fuck you are!” He pulls him towards a wall, shoving him against it, his words like venom as they attacked Mickey. “I don't want you anywhere near my brother. I don't want you in this fucking hospital. You got the fucking kids _taken_ off you, taken off Ian. How the fuck did that happen, Mickey? Huh?”

Mickey feels himself grow cold. The words were nothing he hadn't heard before. Instead, he lets his mouth run off the words, his whole body tired, numb. “I'm getting them back.”

Snarling, Lip shoves at his chest once more. “Oh yeah? Is that why you smell of fucking whisky, huh? Is that why you are here and not _fighting_ to get them back?” When Mickey tries to move, Lip pushes him back harshly, his teeth baring. “I was always right about you. You don't fucking deserve my brother, and you sure don't deserve those kids. You're a piece of shit, Mickey, you're an alcoholic scum-bag that thinks of nobody but himself.”

There's not point in fighting back; Mickey already knew those things were true.

Lip scowls, turning his nose up towards Mickey. His words dug deeper than Mickey would expect, they were poison he guessed. “I always knew you'd turn out like your dad. It's was inevitable, really, and my brother is too fucking dumb to notice it.” He lets his grip fall from Mickey's collar, he steps back a little and laughs, darkly, to himself.

Mickey feels his chest finally fill up – but not with what he hoped with fill the hole – with his barrelling anger. Hell, he knew that he was a piece of shit, a scum piece of trash, that didn't deserve any ounce of happiness, but he was not his father. Never would he become that evil prick that tortured his child-hood with his bare-hands. _Never_ would he betray the happiness of those who loved him dearly. _Never._

Then, he charges for Lip. His fists strikes the curly-haired Gallagher in the jaw, knocking him onto one of the abandoned chairs in the waiting room. “Don't ever fucking say I'm him. Don't you _ever_ compare me to that evil son-of-a-bitch.”

With the back of his hand, Lip wipes the blood from his mouth. He spits onto the floor, stepping up from the chair and crowded into Mickey's space. “That's what you are, though, isn't it?” He shoves at Mickey's chest, testing him, “Alcoholic. Pathetic excuse of a father. Violent piece of shit, _who_ got my brother sent to hospital. Ring any bells?”

That's when everything fucked up. Mickey launched at Lip, punching at his jaw, face, nose, trying to block out the words that escaped into the atmosphere. Lip had turned them over, flipping Mickey onto his back, punching him back. Mickey struck Lip with his knee, kicking him in the ribs as he fell to the ground. Stumbling, Lip managed to regain his strength, where as Mickey felt himself falling loose, and slammed his fist into Mickey's gut, sending him tumbling to the ground.

Lip leans down, holding his side and snarls, “Sort yourself out, Mickey, before you loose those kids and you loose Ian too.”

***

It was becoming easy letting the darkness bask over him now. The hospital staff had kicked him out – banning him from the place for a whole week – and sent him home in a taxi. The door was already open when he got there, removal men stalking in and out, taking his furniture, taking his belongings. Two cars were taken, including the one he had driven into the tree, and all the electrical devices too. Mickey had accepted it, failing to argue as he curled up against the only sofa that wasn't repossessed – the old Gallagher couch that Ian had forced into the house despite Mickey's strong argument to let it go.

Reality had kicked in and Mickey found himself stuck to the chair; he couldn't move, it felt as if someone had their hands at his shoulders, pushing and pinning him down against it, the strength to strong to struggle against. He was alone; Ian was still laying in that hospital bed, feeding and living from a mechanical device that kept him alive. All Mickey wanted was for him to walk through the door, holding the kids, a grin plastered on his face with the words _it will be okay_ falling from his lips. The kids were gone; taken to a stupid home that restricted him from seeing them; and he felt hopeless. His kids were his pride, his life, his hope – they were the only precious things that came from Mickey that were pure, innocent, _good._ They were everything to him and he had failed to do the only job they had asked of him; to protect them.

Mickey felt worthless, nothing, just a piece of trash dumped behind a bin. He had failed to protect them _all;_ first Ian, now the kids. He had lost everything he loved – and he hated himself for it. There was no light, no tunnel, nothing that could help him get up. He couldn't see Ian; the hospital were adamant that violence didn't belong in the hospital, and because Lip was a blood relative it was necessary that he still went to visit Ian. He couldn't see the kids; he didn't want to breach the contract and be locked up forever. He needed to see them. He _needed_ to make sure that they were okay, but he couldn't even put the bottle down never-mind go against the law.

He sobs into the cushion the couch, feeling hopeless and ready to just give in. A whole month without bringing his kids home – a whole week without seeing the one man he had ever loved to try and win back his forgiveness – he didn't feel strong enough to take on the battle. The war had already been won.

Abruptly, he hears the sound of the front-double doors slamming shut. He doesn't bother to look over the top of the couch because he assumes it's just the removal men taking away more of their stuff. Then he hears heels stomping against the marble surface of the floor, the sound getting closer, more loud, up to the back of the couch.

He hears the familiar voice before he turns to look, “Mickey, what the _fuck_ is going on?!”

 


	7. Mode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE MY BABIES
> 
> 1) MANDYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY ((the reason why she didn't come to see them earlier will be revealed later on - stay with me))  
> 2) so, Mickey is banned from the hospital - but we all know that Mickey doesn't give a fuck about that  
> 3) NEW CHARACTERS WOOOOOOO  
> 4) ok it will be ok I swear just give it time  
> 5) NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE SOON I PROMISEEEE

Mickey feels the blood drain from his face, his whole body turning cold. His eyes widen from their squint, focusing on his sister who stood behind the couch; red-faced, eyes narrowed like a hawk, her hands placed firmly at his hips, tapping her foot in a way to suppress her incoming anger. The alcohol effects start to wear off, the cloak of invincibility and safety that Mickey had wrapped around himself no longer there. He shifts against his chair, his body uncurling from it's balled-up position, as he licks his lips to form some sort of explanation. Instead, he finds himself spitting out his words, body yet again rejecting anything that hit against the surface. “What the fuck do _you_ want?”

If anything, it only makes Mandy angrier, her eyes nearly popping from her skull. She stalks around the couch, placing herself before Mickey. Bitterly, she yells, “ _I_ want to know why the fuck you didn't tell me that my bestfriend, _your_ husband, is dying in a fucking hospital bed?!”

Mickey knew that at some point he would have to explain what happened, why it happened, _why_ he was drinking his mind and memories away – leaving them in the bottom of an empty bottle – but after everything – loosing the kids – he felt too tired to talk, too numb, too lost. Sitting up, he rubs his hand across his face, body infected by nausea. “I don't need this bullshit.”

When he proceeds to stand, Mandy shoves back against the couch, her face filled with face, almost as if cheeks would explode. “No. Sit the fuck down.” Her voice becomes lined with dominance, the tone strong and stern and unusual to Mickey. He blinks, watching her pour out. “We need to talk about this, Mickey, _now.”_

Shaking his head, Mickey refuses. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Mickey was done talking. He was done _feeling._ He had lost everything and he didn't _want_ to talk about it, he didn't want to realise that it all happened because of him. Ian was always the strong one – even if Mickey failed to admit it – and Mickey didn't have the strength to sit it out and talk about it.

Mandy laughs mockingly, baring her teeth. “Well, we are.” When Mickey stands to leave, she pushes at his chest sending him stumbling against his feet. Her eyes are glazed over, her body ready to cascade to the floor like a bundle of falling letters, but she shoves again. She's yelling louder now. “Once you told me that you would never turn out like dad. But look at you?” She shoves him again, her hands clenched into fists. “Drinking your life away, getting the kids taken off you, getting kicked out of the fucking _hospital?_ ”

Mickey finds himself speechless. It wasn't the first time he had been confronted that day; he felt the words almost warm, as if they belonged within him. In time, he felt himself believe them.

His sisters hand stay at his chest, balled up and ready to hit, and a tear falls down her pale cheek, resting at the top of his lip. In a whisper, Mandy cries, “I thought you were better than that. Better than _him.”_ She hits her fists against his chest. “You're turning into him, Mickey, and you promised you wouldn't!”

He's starting to forget he even had a heart; the beating was so low, slow, non-existent, that the idea of feeling anything was a mystery. The walls are no longer there to protect him, keep him grounded, control him, and he tries to push back the anger that lined his body, that fed him. He pushes her hands away, jabbing a finger into his chest as he yelled back, “I'm not dad. I will _never_ be that fucking evil-basturd! _Never!”_

Mandy shakes her head, clicking her teeth, hands falling back to her hips. “I don't really give a shit what you say, Mickey, because, _honestly,_ you're a fucking mess.”

That's it. Mickey's done with this whole conversation. He may already knew all the things Mandy was shooting at him, but he didn't want to hear it, not when his mind was already screaming it out. Scowling, her barges past his sister, stumbling towards the door of the living area. “I'm not having this shit – I'm leaving -”

Mandy follows him and pulls him back with a heavy grip against his arm. “Iggy told me what happened.” She nods as Mickey turns, his face washing over with guilt. “Yeah, he told me about Ian getting shot. He told me that you fucking beat the shit out of him and pointed a _gun_ at him.”

Mickey ducks his head in shame – he feels his body convulse and in need to hurl.

Shoving at his chest again, Mandy's words come out broken, stuttering with a shiver. “He's our fucking brother, Mickey! _Family._ He's looking out for you, like we all would.” She pauses, letting herself catch a breath, before she asks, “If I had done the same thing would you have pointed that gun at me, huh?”

The image makes Mickey's chest clench, his stomach knotting and twisting in a tangled motion. The thought of his sister behind the barrel of a gun made his body shiver – made him want to puke. It was his duty to protect her, just like Ian, just like the kids, and if anyone threatened to break that he would make them pay. “No – that's not the same fucking thing-”

Mickey stumbles to walk, again, struggling to find his jacket. Mandy grips at his arm, whipping him around to face her. The words are like venom, the snakes teeth sinking into his body, piercing him and infecting him, taking over. “So, tell me, Mick. How the _fuck_ did you let this happen?! Huh? _How_ did you let those strangers take your kids away when you're meant to protect them? _How_ did you let some ass-hole shoot Ian?”

He had been asking himself those questions hours now – asking himself why the hell he let it happen in the first place. He had no clue – he blamed it on the fact he got a life that he didn't deserve, and the world was finally taking it back to where it belonged – he felt himself grow selfish, wishing that he would just _fix_ it. He was alone; he had lost everything that he loved – he had let them go through his fingers, unaware that he had given those people the access to take it.

_How did he let it happened?_

_Why didn't he stop it?_

Mandy's voice softens as she notices Mickey's quiet thinking; she squeezes his arm, her anger to visible and present but hidden behind the tears that formed around her eyes. “Mick, what would Ian do if he knew you let some _strangers_ take your kids?”

Flickering his eyes up, Mickey finally finds the courage to speak. His jaw is slack, his eyes puffed with swell, his lips dry, and his words feel broken, “I'm getting them back.”

His sister slaps her hands against her sides, letting out a bitter laugh. “Sure.” Abruptly, she picks up the empty bottle from the side of the couch and launches it against the wall behind Mickey, the remaining liquid dripping down the pale paint. Mickey flinches – he never flinches – and Mandy just shakes her head, hands gesturing towards him. “Drinking is a useful solution to get your kids back, Mickey. I'm sure the court will see you've changed.”

Mickey feels as if he's being hit in the stomach – winded, unable to breathe – and without his walls to protect him, he feels his voice moving, talking, without his consent. His hand jabs into his own chest, mouth scrunching as he strained the words out, “Don't you turn that shit on me. Don't you fucking dare-”

“Why won't you fucking listen!” Then yelling turns into screaming. Mandy's voice echoes through the house, the glass shaking, her words sky-rocketing the usual sound scale. It's sudden, loud, and Mickey finds himself flinching as she steps closer. “Why won't you get it into your thick skill that those kids need you! Moping around, drinking, getting in fights, is going to make them fucking hare you, Mickey!” She runs her hand roughly through her hair, pushing it back. “Hell, if you carry on like this you're going to be alone, just like dad.”

The funny thing is, Mickey already feels alone.

Mickey's hands wave around in the air, his body starting to shake, the voices in his head starting to chatter loud, chanting his name, calling him in. He tilts his head, shrugging, “Why the fuck are you even here, Mands? I can sort this shit out myself.”

Mandy shoves at his chest – the feeling normal now – and bites hard against her lip. “I'm your fucking sister. I'm meant to _protect_ you, just like you're meant to protect those kids.” She nods to herself, confirming her words before Mickey hears them. “I'm here to help you, to get your head out of your ass and sort out this fucking mess that you've made.” Squaring up to him, she finally breathes, punctuating her statement with a look of disappointment. “ _That's_ why I'm here.”

Swallowing, Mickey tries to take it in. It's overwhelming, suffocating, and he can't find any air to breathe. His chest heaves as he searches hopelessly for the unknown and his mind is heavy, full with thoughts that dripped at the edges. He sighs, giving up, tired, “Just fuck off-”

“I'm not going anywhere.” Mandy stands directly before him, barricading him from the half-full, unscratched, bottle that still rested at the other side of the room. She wipes a hand beneath her nose, sweeping her hair from her eyes with a quick flick of her head, “Yell at me all you want but I'm not leaving until those kids are home and Ian is better. Yes, you need to sort this shit out. But not alone.”

Mickey's body refuses. _He doesn't need fucking help. He needs Ian to get better. He needs to kids back. He needs his family._ He sniffs up, hardening his expression. “I don't need your help.”

A laugh escapes her lips, bubbling up with a bitter remark. “Oh, typical.” She paces the floor a little bit, glancing around the living area with her nose turned up. She raises her arms and when they fall they hit against her thighs. “You're always pushing people away because you're scared that they may actually care about you!”

Tugging at the greasy strands of hair against his pounding skull, Mickey hisses back. “I don't need you to help me! I don't need fucking _charity!”_ His blood boils up, spitting externally, hitting his sister with a blank. “ _I_ need to fix this! _I_ need to get those kids home! _I_ need to get Ian better! _I_ need to fucking -”

Mandy cuts him off, more with concern than a wish to rudely interrupt, and stops his delusional rambling as she placed her hands at his shoulders. “Listen, Mick, I know. I know, aright.” A weak smile rests at her lips before it drops almost completely. The reassurance lost. “Ian would want you to get better. He would want you to get those kids back.”

Mickey shakes his head, disgusted at the accusation. “I don't need to get better.”

It's clear to her that Mickey was in denial, that the shock had paralysed his senses – that nearly loosing Ian, and the absence of his children, had destroyed him. Her hands tighten at his shoulders, squeezing harshly into his muscle, she bites back. “Stop thinking about yourself for one fucking minute, Mickey! Actually do something for someone else!”

Mickey's fingers twitch at his sides – his sister is talking but his rattling screams from inside blocked out each word she released – and he pushes against the strong grip holding him back and storms over to the table, the shouts behind him muffled. He leans down and grabs the top of the whisky bottle, popping off the cap. When he places it against his lips it's suddenly ripped away from him, tossed onto the floor, just like anything else that kept him grounded.

Mandy grabs the extra two bottles from the side of the couch and chucks them towards the floor, the glass shattering, spraying the wooden panels, whisky splashing back against the furniture. She slaps him, hard, knocking his head to the side. “This stops now.”

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?!” Mickey bellows, getting up into her face. His body starts to heat up, fire building in the pit of his stomach, and his head grows heavy. Mandy didn't understand. No one did. He _needed_ that whisky – he needed something to take off the edge, to stabilise him.

“I'm stopping you from killing yourself!” Mandy growls, her hands clenching in thin air as she tried to explain the vast amounts of emotions that thrived through her body. “You carry on like this, Mick, you'll _never_ get those kids back and Ian will wake up and he sure as-fucking-hell won't want anything to do with you!”

Of course, Mickey already knew that. The fear of Ian waking up and realising that Mickey had lost everything they loved, selfishly, and then would leave – it was eating away at him, tearing him apart, taking his life away and replacing it with a cloud of darkness that suffocated and strangled him until he couldn't breathe without feeling glass cut through his throat. Those kids were _his,_ Ian's, there was no way he could let anyone take that away from him – but he managed that – and now he felt worthless, hoping that the world would just rewind and erase the past. He wanted to get back to the life with smiles, late nights watching cheap films, eating take-out on a Saturday night because Ian would whine that he was too tired to cook, putting the kids to bed and reading to them until they both fell to a deep sleep, kissing Ian and being wrapped up in his large, lanky limbs and feeling that warmth, that love, that sense of _home._

Mickey feels himself spit back, shaking his head with a scowl. “Don't say that shit.”

Denial was his best-friend – it was all he had left.

Mandy groans, frustrated, her hands clawing the air. “Jesus, Mickey! You need to see what this shit -” she kicks at the bottle by her foot, “is doing to you! To _you,_ to the kids, to Ian, to _all_ of us.” She steps forward, sweeping her hair to the side, a hiss leaves her lips. “If you don't keep your shit together how the _hell_ is anyone else going to cope, huh?” Again, her hands fall to her hips and when Mickey fails to answer, or even look up, she grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Do you _want_ to loose everything?!”

That's the thing – Mickey had lost _everything._

With his head ducked in shame, he bites at his lip, picking at the small pieces of skin that stuck by the corner of his thumb. “I've already done that.”

“Yeah and who's fault is that?!”

Mickey wanted to blame himself – he already did – but he can't forget or disregard that Jay Jones was the one behind all of this, the perpetrator. If that fight didn't happen back the hotel a chain of events would have never followed – Ian would be there, the kids would be _home,_ he would still be playing his fights and his suspension would be non-existent. It Jay Jones who had encouraged the darkness to wash over and capture Mickey at his weakest – it was Jay Jones that caused the grief and the strangers to take his children. Jay fucking Jones was a monster – no matter how many times Mickey had hit himself, beat down on his mind, he knew that he was to blame – just as much as Mickey was.

His name falling from Mickey's tongue tasted like poison. “Jay fucking Jones.”

Mandy's face twists into a sheer confusion, her brows scrunching up into a frown. “Who's that? The fighter?” For a second she keeps quiet, just looking, examining Mickey as if she was a doctor at the hospital checking him over, before she finally bursts, her hands yet again slamming against his chest, knocking him back. “You seriously need to look in the mirror, Mickey. Only _you_ can sort this out. Only _you_ can get those kids back whilst Ian is getting better.”

“Mands-”

His sister cuts him off, instantly, “No. Listen. I know Ian is the love of your life, aright, I know. But those _kids_ love you more than anything and you should have protected them when they needed you.” Mickey finally looks up, his cheeks beginning to burn up, his eyes beginning to sting. Her voice softens, “Hell, I have no clue how they got through this shit. They're probably traumatised by all of this and you quitting on them is betraying them.”

Mickey starts to click his tongue, fidgeting with his hands, “I do love them-”

Mandy's hands drop to her sides. “You out of all people should know what it's like to have a deadbeat dad, Mick. Don't let them have the childhood we had.”

Flashes of the past come flying back, striking him in the chest, winding him.

 

_His dad is on the couch wearing nothing but a pair of old, ratty boxer shorts, a beer in his hand and a bowl of nuts resting on his stomach. Mickey walks through the door, he's around fifteen, his coat hanging off his shoulders, his hands red raw from the cold, icy Chicago weather, and he's stopped short when he passes by the chair due to the roar of his fathers monstrous voice._

“ _You got my money?” He asks, eyes narrowing towards the milk, eggs and a loaf of bread that Mickey held tight in his grasp._

_Mickey remembers the deal he had to do that day – breaking the kneecaps of two customers who forgot to pay, stripping them from their wallets – and he remembered stealing the food from the worn down store around the block. He didn't want to give the money away, not to his dad, he wanted to keep it because he had earned it after-all._

_When Mickey fails to answer, stood still behind the couch, he flinches when his dad steps up and storms over to him, landing a kick to his shin and knocking the eggs from his hands – two fall out, crashing to the floor, the yellow yolk staining the wooden panels. His dad slaps his face, hard, causing his nose to block with blood. “I said, boy, where the fuck is my money?”_

_Without hesitation, Mickey drops the food and milk onto the floor, searching in his jacket pocket for the notes he had earned himself. It's around fifty dollars and Mickey already knows what's going to come from it – he had lost, he had took the wrong amount of money and know he would pay._

_His dad snatches the bills from his hand, scowling towards them as he counts quickly. He sends a swift kick to Mickey's side, shaking his head. “This is all you got?” He leans down, gripping a handful of Mickey's hair, pulling his head back. “You better get the fuck back out there, son, because this isn't going to cut it.” He slams his foot into the bottle of Milk, smashing the glass. Mickey sighs, biting down on his lip._

“ _Pops-”_

“ _Don't fucking call me that.” His dad spits on him, kicking him in the ribs this time. A disgusted look shone over his expression and Mickey felt himself curl up inside. When his dad leans down again, whisky tainting his breath, he flinches. “You're no fucking son of mine.”_

_That's when Mickey stopped calling him dad – that's when he realised that Terry was a monster._

 

The memory is erratic in his head – repeating like an old record – and he finally allows himself to burst, letting go, the darkness possessing his body. He's yelling and he hates how familiar he finds it, “I'm trying! I'm fucking trying, okay!” Mandy flinches and Mickey tells himself internally to stop but he can't. “Everything is a big ball of mess and it's piling up and I can't fucking stop it!”

Mandy whispers, a little shaky, “Mick-”

Mickey finds himself panicking, words rushed. “I want Yev and Owen back more than you fucking know! I _tried_ to stop them from taking them away, I _tried_ to protect them. But how can I? How can _I_ protect them when I can't even protect Ian?” He lets out a shuddering breath, his vision finally clear and focused on his sister. “Ian was the one who made the plans. Ian was the one who made sure the bills were paid and everything was okay! Ian was the one that kept everything together and now he's dying in a hospital bed and I can't stop everything from falling apart!”

Letting himself breathe for a second, his stomach twists into a knot of hopelessness. There's tears shadowing his eyes and he feels his body ready to give in, ready to hand him over to the sharks under the surface of the crashing waters that threatened to drown him. He shrugs, sniffing up, “So, call me dad. Call me fucking useless, but I've tried, okay.” His voice softens, almost into a whisper, “I fucking tried to keep everything together but it's so – it's so fucking hard when Ian isn't here.”

Then a silence draws over them – like a soft blanket but heavy against his shoulders – and Mandy's looking at him like he's broken, like he needs _help,_ like he would look at Ian when he would be on his low, unmoving. His skin is itchy, his bones too fragile to keep him steady, and he sways on the spot, hands shaking, fingers twitching – movement to which he couldn't control. Mickey looked at his little sister and saw the cracks in her eyes too – the collective consciousness providing him with nothing but guilt and a heavy weight that he couldn't hold up no longer.

Mandy's chokes on her words, “Mick, we can-”

Mickey's had enough. He didn't want to speak about it. He wanted out. The kids were his priority, the first thing on his mind, and he needed them back, and if that meant punching out the judge to get them he would happily comply. He shakes his head, his lips quivering as he took a shaky breath, and he turns from his stance, grabbing his jacket. “I need to go.”

His sister follows him, rushing before him, her hands out trying to stop him. “Mickey, stop-”

He needed to get the kids. He needed to get Ian.

“Mandy, get the fuck out of my way.”

Suddenly, Mandy yells out, her words shattering the silence of the brisk air. “Mickey, would you just fucking listen to me!”

Mickey's caught off guard by the loud sound, stumbling against his feet but he continued to push against her failing hands. “What?!” He yells back, voice growing dry.

A tear falls down her cheek, one still resting at her eyelashes, and runs over her lips. She shivers, her arms curled around her waist. “What happened to Ian – him being shot – that was _not_ your fault.” She shifts forward, trying to grab his attention. “You need to know that, Mick.”

His body refuses to take it. Erratically, he starts to tug at his hair, letting the tears spring free from his eyes, letting his voice croak and grunt as he spoke. “No. No. No. If I had listened to him this wouldn't have happened. No of it.” He creates a disgruntled moan. “Yev and Owen would be _here,_ Ian would be _here,_ and everything would be okay!”

That's all he wanted. The old life; the laughing, joking, careless, life that all four of them enjoyed and love. Despite a couple of lows, it was what they wanted. Mickey wanted to get back to that, no matter what it took, but he didn't feel strong enough, ready enough, to take that first stepping stone.

Mandy wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand, letting out a shivering sigh. “Mickey, you should know now that nothing is ever _okay._ These things happen. They have to because life is a bitch and it tests us. But, we can sort this. _You_ can sort this.” She pulls him towards her chest, embracing him with her arms tightly around his back. She kisses the side of his damp cheek, and whispers, “I'm helping you sort this.”

Mickey's mind, body, soul, it all falls apart. It shatters into his sisters arms. There's a relief in the embrace, a sense that maybe he could actually revive this mess – and he felt safe there, in her arms, and he felt himself lose the heaviness, it all pouring out when he started to shake, vigorously, into sobs. Mandy stood, absorbing it, and sways the hug to each side, holding him, trying to ground him with her arms around him.

 

***

The logs burned in the fire, sparks and little fragments spitting out and evaporating into dust. Mickey and Mandy were both sat with their backs against the couch, slumped onto the floor, watching as the fire burned up and the heat rose. After Mickey had broken down, piece by piece, they had ordered some food – just like old times – and sat in-front of the fire. They had been talking for what felt like years, two hours and four minutes, about everything; Ian, the kids, the past.

Mickey continued to speak, face blank, staring out a head, watching as the blocks of wood burned furiously in the small, confined place – he could relate, he could sympathise with the fire – and he let off a small weak smile, before he dropped completely. “It's fucked up, you know, I didn't even see Ian until the gun-shot went off. It was all a fucking blur and I was too busy beating down on Jay Jones to even stop it. I mean, man, I looked around – I couldn't see him – I heard a shout and I fucking shit myself, I just knew it. I just _knew_ something had happened. Something bad.”

 

_The scream was a shot to the heart, deafening. When the crowd moves, making a gap, he can see Ian kneeling against the floor. “Mickey?” Ian whispers, as if he's confused, wondering whether Mickey was actually there._

 

Mandy just listens, tears jerking, watching him fidget with a loose thread at his shirt. Mickey hears himself speak, its uncontrollable nature tiring, “Then I saw him, just kneeling there. _Just –_ fuck -” Mandy grabs his hand, squeezing it. Mickey nods, letting out a long exhale. “I didn't know what had happened at first, I just thought he was in shock. Or, you know, had taken a punch or some shit. Then I – I – fucking saw how red it was. So _much_ fucking red.”

 

_He pulls at Ian's jacket, lifting the black back, and his heart sinks, breaks, shatters. It's red, it soaked, and Mickey already knows what it is. It's blood. It's everywhere. So much fucking blood. He feels himself panic, his words coming out on their own accord. “No.” People start to crowd, yelling out to others, but his eyes lock to Ian's and back down to the red, stained shirt. “No. No. No.”_

 

Mickey clenches his eyes shut, trying to rid of the flashes replaying in his mind. He lets out a wet, chuckle, which could be seen as sadistic, “It's so fucking stupid. He just wouldn't listen. All he did was repeat himself, over and over, telling me he wanted to go home but I couldn't fucking do that. I couldn't fucking take him home and that's what I should be doing. I should be taking him home, but I fucking can't.”

 

_Ian's body is shaking violently, his cries increasing, his eyes fighting to stay open. He's pleading, desperate, erratic, and Mickey feels himself grow cold. “I wanna go home. I wanna go home. I wanna go home.” Then, Ian started to choke, his chest heaving as it tried to grip the air and Mickey felt helpless, he couldn't help him, he didn't know what to do._

 

Pulling his hand away from his sisters, he tugs hard against his hair. “He's such a fucking idiot. Such a fucking – he laid there, as if accepting it. As if he believed that he should be shot, that it was okay that it had happened. He was telling me it was going to be okay – I should be saying that. I should be keeping him safe. That fucking asshole was ready to leave, he was ready to fucking die, he was accepting it – that fucker doesn't understand how good he is and that's my fucking fault, Mands, that's my fault. I should have – fucking – I – I should have fucking told him.”

 

_The blood clots in Ian's throat, choking him. He tries to speak but blood spits out, dribbling down his chin, smearing into the skin. He shakes uncontrollably, “It's okay. It's okay.” Ian's accepting it, he's giving in and with the last of his strength he manages to cling to Mickey. His eyes flicker up, fluttering, threatening to close shut, “I'm scared, Mick. I'm scared – what if -”_

 

Mickey pulls his legs up, resting his chin against the top of his knees. “I thought I lost him. I thought he was gone, just dead, there in my arms. I couldn't get that fucking feeling out of my head, it just stuck there and I couldn't get rid of it. I forgot to protect Yevgeny, Owen, Iggy, all of you because my head is just filled with this shit – filled with the thought of loosing Ian. I just – I fucking lost it and I lost them. Now, I have no fucking idea how to fix it. I need to fix it. I didn't realise how much I needed them until I lost them. I fucked it up.” He ducks his head in shame, his breath broke with raw emotion that suffocated his lungs. “I need them back, Mands, I need them here.”

Mandy's face is soaked with tears, her make-up running down her cheeks and surrounding her eyes. She pulls him to her side, wrapping him up in her arms, embracing him in a needed hug. Her grip tightens as she rests her chin at the top of his head, letting out a breath that she had held for so long. Mickey sobs against her chest, body curling into her warmth, his hands shake around her and the darkness feels as if it's finally leaving, slowly. Mandy whispers, her words still clear, into his hair, “Do you remember that day when family services tried to take us away?”

Mickey nods into her chest. She sighs, “Dad was on probation for beating up that guy in the alley, and Tony and Iggy were locked up after that dodgy deal got that kid in hospital. You were like – what – fourteen?” She chuckles a little at the memory. “They barged in, knocking the door open, and picked me up, trying to take me away. You came running in – my knight in fucking shining armour – and threatened them. When they didn't listen you charged, baseball bat in your hands, gun in your pocket, and you beat them off me. They left, threatening to come back, but they never did come back. “ She pulls back a little, looking down towards Mickey – he looked like an infant, yearning to be held, fragile - “You protected me that day, Mick. You. You've always done that, it's your instinct. Family always came first for you. Yeah, you lost it, but you can still protect them. You can still fight off those idiots that try and take them away, you can still put them first.”

Mickey just nods. For the first time he could feel his body absorbing the words, restraining itself from hurling it back. The shores are getting calm, the walls slowly starting to reinforce. His trembling body lets out little shocks, dimming down at each jolt. He just listens – he voice a lullaby.

Mandy pulls him closer, arms squeezing him. “Those days were so easy. I remember us sitting there on that ratty, stained couch thinking about what it would be like to be rich, to be happy. Then we finally got it, got out, and had almost everything, and then we realised that we were better off having nothing.” Her soft voice calms back down to a whisper, “Mick, all you need is those kids and Ian, your family. You don't need fancy cars and a big fucking house because having them is having everything. You just need to realise that.”

Mickey tells himself to do just that.

_***_

_L_ ater that night, Mickey locks himself in the bathroom. Mandy had fell asleep and he had carried her to Owen's bed, placing a blanket over her and shutting the door closed. He loved his sister; he realised that he should have called her, told her, asked her to help. All the things she said were right – all of them. Mickey needed to get back to how he was; the strong, fighting father that protected his kids and made sure Ian was okay.

He sits on the counter in the bathroom, his back pressed against the mirror, the sink next to him with the tap leaking. He pulls open the drawer behind his dangling legs and pulls out a pile of post-its that Ian would write after each fight. Placing them in his lap, he begins to read them, Ian's voice echoing in his mind as he read each word.

__**Suck it up you big baby – Ian (Gingerbread executive)** _ _

__**Band-aids – check Yev's room – Ian** _ _

__**Get your ass up, John called. He's got “news” - Ian** _ _

__**Fuck you – Ian** _ _

__**I've gone out to see Lip – feed the troops – Ian** _ _

__**Your next fight is going to be with me if you don't clean your shit up – Ian** _ _

__**Skittles. Step one; Eat. Step two; whine and bitch to me to get you more – Ian** _ _

__**I Love. You – Ian** _ _

Drops of water fall against the colourful notes, the paper turning dark with damp. Mickey shivers, resting his head back against the mirror, eyes closed. It's quiet – too quiet – and he hates it.

_***_

The lamp in Yevgeny's room is still on – Mickey proceeded to leave it on now that Ian wasn't there to do it, now that the room was empty. He curls his arm around his waist, pretending that Ian was stood behind him whispering that they would fix it together, but the thought deceives him and he feels worse. The quilt on the bed is still pulled back, the bottom tussled and hanging off the end, and Mickey climbs into it, pulling the blanket up to his chin. It's cold, just like his skin, and the soft material of the duvet surrounds him. He turns to his side, a tear falling over the bridge of his nose, and stares towards the wall – this time it wasn't closing in, this time a picture was taped to it, a drawing Owen had done for them all the year before – it was a scribble of them all, Ian's legs longer that the rest of him, orange crayon plastered at his head. Mickey was stood next to him, incredibly small in comparison, with a pair of boxing gloves massively drawn over his hands. Yev stood next to Ian, a huge grin against his face, his hair all stuck up, drawn with a scribble. Owen stood next to Mickey, a similar grin against his face, in his hand he held a bear – and the picture made his whole body shiver, the unusual feeling of warmth taking over the cold.

_***_

It's the morning. After Mandy lectured Mickey on making it up with his brother, he ended up sitting on the steps outside the front door; a duffel sat by his feet, the hood of his jacket pulled over his head. Earlier, he had looked through the local newspaper, spotting a youth gym just a couple of blocks around – frankly, Mickey wanted to go to the hospital, but they wouldn't let him in – and noticed the famous name; Derice McDonald. The guy was legendary for his trainer abilities, training fighters up to professionals and winning them their title. He knew the guy had fought back in the past, winning a few himself, until he – like Mickey – lost everything. Despite Mickey's reluctance to go, Mandy had forced him to ring Iggy and go down there.

The ground crackles as Iggy's car pulls up, stopping before Mickey. He looks up and his eyes lock with his brothers, a weak smile breaking against his lips. There's a bruise against Iggy's eye – going old and brown – and when he smiles back the wrinkles at the corner of his eye mask into the colour against his skin. Mickey stumbles up to his feet, reluctant but complies, and walks around the car. He opens the passenger seat and sits down, placing his bag in the back.

Mickey breaks the silence when Iggy starts to drive, pulling out of the double gates. He's not sure what to say – or to explain himself – so he doesn't. He looks over briefly, “Thanks, man, for – uh – taking me.”

His brother shakes his head, looking through the corner of his eye. “Don't worry about it, Mick.”

Looking down towards his cut knuckles, Mickey squints a little. “I mean, I can't really – I can't pay you right now, man.” He wants to make this better; he wants to make his brother believe that he didn't mean what he did. Guilt, that's all he felt and he wanted forgiveness.

Iggy snorts, bitterly replying, “Well, fuck you.” He looks into the rear mirror before turning the corner to the next street. Mickey struggles to understand. “Man, I don't want to get fucking paid. I was never here for the money, you know that.” He glances to Mickey, sighing as he saw his brother ducked his head. “Never, man.”

Mickey doesn't find it easy to understand – he struggles to make out what his brother was saying. He had no idea how someone could forgive so fast, forget so easily, it was a trait that Mickey wished he had but would never get. He bumps his shoulder into Iggy, “I know.”

“I'm so fucking sorry, Mick.” Iggy confesses, sweat beaming against his forehead.

Sorry? If anyone needed to apologise it had to be Mickey; he had beaten Iggy up for no apparent reason, when he should have been thanking him for trying to save Ian from a bullet. Sorry was meant to be coming from his mouth, not his brothers. “Ay, shut the fuck up. You don't need to say that shit.”

Iggy just nods his head, taking it. He drives fast down the street, pulling up across the street from the gym that Mickey had seen in the newspaper. It looked old; worn down, paint coming off the outside, graffiti sprayed against the bricks, a ratty sign reading Derice's Gym. With the engine still rumbling, Iggy asks, “Is this the place?”

Mickey confirms, voice rough. “Yeah, this is it.”

Unbuckling his seat-belt, Iggy turns to Mickey, “You want me to come with you, man?”

Despite the fact that having his brother with him would make it a lot easier, Mickey shook his head, refusing. “Nah, man. No.” He wanted to do this himself, he wanted to actually fix something – it was the beginning of sorting the mess he made, untangling it. “I've gotta do this on my own.”

A smile forms against Iggy's lips, as if proud, and he fiddles with something around his wrist. Once he palms it in his hand, he passes it over to Mickey. It's a watch; the watch that Mickey had bought him after winning his title. “Here, have it.”

Mickey didn't want it. He didn't give a shit about material things now – he finally realised what was important and that was his family. Retreating, he declines, “No. Keep it. I fucking gave it to you.”

The watch dangles around Iggy's fingers, “No, Mick. I owe you a gift and I haven't got any money.”

Pushing it away, Mickey unbuckles his belt. “Fuck off, man, I'm not taking that shit.” He grips the handle of the door and swings it open, his legs turning on the seat and onto the side-walk. Before he leaves the car, he turns his head around, “Right, you stay safe. Don't be getting anymore black fucking eyes.”

Iggy blinks back, smirking, resting his head at the head-rest of his seat. “You too, brother.”

A chuckle escapes Mickey's lips and he knocks Iggy's shoulder with his fist. “Right. Fuck off.” He steps out of the car, shutting the passenger door. He glances around the street – it reminds him of Chicago; all run down, gangs lurking at the corners, a smell of whisky and weed all mixed into one. He sighs, pulling open the back seat door and grabs his duffel.

Iggy's hand rests at the top of the passenger chair, “Hey, man, I'm going to the hospital today to see Ian. Just call me if you need anything.”

The mention of Ian's name causes his stomach to curdle, a sick forming at his throat. He nods, slamming the door shut, pulling his bag over his shoulder. Tapping his knuckles against the window, he gives his brother a weak smirk before attempting to cross the street. After three cars pass, a gap forms in the traffic and Mickey walks over to the opposite side. Once he reaches the door, he yells over to his brother who sits, patiently, in the car – eyes following him. “Hey, Ig. Say hi to the rest of the crew, would you?”

Leaning out the window, Iggy slaps his hand against the side of the car. “Lazy shit!”

Mickey flips him off, “Now fuck off.” He hears Iggy's car drive off as he pushes open the wooden, scratched door to the gym. He's welcomed to a block of chairs, just a small light in the corner of the ceiling to help him see each step. Walking up them, his eyes cast over the various posters littered on the walls; champion fights, newspaper cut outs, leaflets, names. He slows as he reaches the top, just a door between the beginning of his rehabilitation and the past.

There's noise coming from behind it; yelling, trainers squeaking against the polished floors, hits into punching bags, the grunt and huffs of the fighters. There's music too; some sort of rap, a beat repeating itself – it almost sounded familiar, close to the one that Mickey had listened to before his big, champion fight. He pulls down his hood, the swell in his eye and the cut against his lip now evident in the light. After taking a breath, he finally grips the door, swinging it open.

Inside is movement; fists hitting into the bags, two people in the ring, one kid practising his punches in thin air. The ring is centralised, light from the sky-light spotlighting the teenager inside of it. Beside the ring is a group of kids, all leaning against the ropes, calculating the others next move, cheering and chattering as the training session continued. A table stood out in the corner of the room, cluttered with tapes, bandages, water bottles and a skipping rope. By the ring sat a stereo, old but loud, blasting out the music as they trained. It reminded him of the first time he ever trained; it was gym as small of this one, cluttered with nobodies trying to become something good – the air almost smelt the same; sweat, humid heat, burning tape.

One by one, head at a time, each person started to notice and feel Mickey's presence and he immediately felt unwanted, a disruption. He sits himself down on the one the small, plastic chairs that was next to the door, and stares over to the session in the ring. The kid was fast, his jabs sharp, dodging each hit. Mickey chuckles to himself when he thinks of Ian hating the place; he would have sat there scowling, running his mouth towards Mickey about the dangers and the violence.

A bell rings out and the movement stops; unusual for Mickey because whenever he hears a bell that's his signal to move, to fight. Mickey watches a conversation with a teenager, scrawny, dark-skinned, small afro against his head, and the trainer – Mickey knows is Derice – instructs, “Hoppy, your on the ropes.”

The teenager – Hoppy – puts his hands on his hips, biting down on his lip. “What? I already did that shit.”

A fierce look washes over Derice, his eyes narrowing. He leans down on the springing ropes, staring the kid blank, dead in the face. “What did you say? Give me fifty.”

Hoppy stands still, eyes wide. Mickey doesn't understand the struck look on his face but he comes to realise that it's just one of Derice's discipline tactics, something to get the kids to respect the art of boxing. Hoppy sighs, before getting down to the floor into the position of a push up. Through the crowded room and the muffled chatter, Mickey can see someone pointing at him, whispering to Derice with a intrigued look in his eye. Derice looks over, just briefly as he if he didn't want to look at all, and climbs under the ropes. Ignoring Mickey's presence, he stalks into his office – or what Mickey thinks is one – and sits behind a old, make-shift desk. Another bell rings out and Mickey steps up from the chair, leaning himself against the frame of the door.

Derice doesn't look up when Mickey asks, “Do you take professionals?”

The trainer leans back in his chair, hands clasped together resting at the top of his stomach. He finally glances over, his discoloured left eye glinting under the swinging, broken light bulb. He checks Mickey over in one look, and speaks, almost bitterly, “What brings Mickey Milkovich to my gym, huh?”

Mickey shrugs, trying to make his voice louder through it's hoarse state. “I'm looking for a – a trainer or, you know, a place to train.” The court had told him that he needed a stable job in order to take on the role of a responsible parent, and the only job Mickey knew was to fight; he had to find a place to train, to work out, to get back in shape.

Derice retreats his gaze, opening a drawer in the desk at his side. He places a pile of papers against the desk, followed by a folded newspaper. He shakes his head, face stern and emotionless, it made Mickey want to run. “Well, I don't train professional fighters anymore.”

Mickey rubs a hand through his stubble, letting out a small chuckle. Mandy had told him not to drink before he went – but the bottle was urging him, calling him, to take at-least half of it – and he finally started to feel the buzz bubble in his stomach. “Fortunately for you, I'm currently not a professional fighter.”

“You think I don't know that?” Derice remarks, picking up the newspaper and slamming it down against the desk for Mickey to see. He leans back against his chair again, his expression still unmoved – it was intimidating, worse than John's, as if he would lash out any minute.

Briefly, Mickey scans the paper – a small picture of himself was printed at the front, all drunk and all doped up. It's the worst image he had ever seen and the fact that it's in the newspaper – which his kids could easily get their hands on – was frightening. The media just twisted everything for a little bit of a fortune, it didn't mean shit. His head sinks and he clicks his teeth, voice coming out gruff, “Does it say in there that they took my kids away from me?”

Derice ducks his head, voice smoother, “Yes, it does.”

For the first time – in what felt like years now – Mickey felt as if someone actually pitied him.

At first, Mickey would hate it; he hated people harassing him, asking if he was okay, offering their unneeded and unwanted help, but he needed someone to say that to him; the only people that he didn't mind asking him, offering him help, had been taken from him. Hell, he couldn't even get into the hospital without someone shoving him out, driving him away. He laughs a little, the situation he had been put in stupid, “It's, uh, it's a big fucking mess, man.” Derice nods and Mickey takes it as his queue to continue. “I remember that nitrate fight, and I remember that was a hell of a fight. You're a hell of a coach, and man, he won that fight.”

Derice laughs out loud, leaning against his desk, “Excuse me, but if I remember correctly, and I do remember, you won that fight. You got the decision. Don't you remember?”

Mickey's mind hits back – he remembers his back being on the ropes, his nose pouring with blood, his eyes nearly clammed shut, as his opponent punched and struck him harshly. He remembers the crowd screaming, cheering, and how his anger pushed him through the pain. He remembers looking into the crowd and Ian there, shaking his head, eyes glazed over, trying to not watch Mickey get beat in the ring. But he remembers winning the fight, the last decision winning him his title. He remembers Ian not talking to him for the whole night, bringing him home and vacating to the spare room until the morning. He remembered Owen counting his cuts, only there was more this time – fifteen at least. He remembered Yevgeny dancing around with his belt wrapped around his lean waist. Mickey remembers it all, and he remembers winning. That game got him up into the top league, it increased his reputation.

Mickey nods his head, stepping back from the wooden frame of the door. He glances around the energised movement in the gym, yearning to pull on some gloves and to hit his anger out into the punching bag. “Yeah, I remember winning. Jordan Mane paid them off-”

“Wait? Jordan Mane paid them off?!”

Laughter bubbles in his throat, he can't help it, this was stupid. He had come there for a job not to rat out the guy that won him a shit ton of money back in the day. He shakes his head, trying to control his fidgeting body, “I don't know, man, it's just a fucking fight game, you know?”

Derice tilts his head, eyes tinted with fuelled rage. “Who do you think you are? Why would you come in here and say something like that?”

Mickey attempts to direct the conversation back to it's original aim, his hands shaking and trembling in the pockets of his jacket. “Nah, man. Listen, I'm just saying that's why I'm here. I need a fucking coach, man.” That's all he needed; to get his kids back, to get revenge on the fucker that nearly stole his heart away. “Nitrate was the only fighter that beat me and I know you were his trainer, and I don't know how you train but that's why I'm fucking here.”

Rubbing his hands together, Derice's expression remains blank. He lets out a huff, his body turning stiff against his seat. “So, you think that. Listen, Mickey, you couldn't handle the rules here.” From the papers, Mickey was a monstrous idiot, that had his own way. They created him to be some alcoholic, drug-abuser, who lost his family to a faulted, emotional distress. It was bullshit.

Mickey had never played by the rules; hell, living his childhood breaking the rules was the one rule. Ian's voice tells him different, telling him to do it, to just stick at it and do something by the book instead of crawling back into the deep, dark hole he had dug for himself. “Listen, I can stick by your rules, I'll be here. I need to fucking do this, man. I can handle some list of rules.”

Pointing to the rest of the gym, Derice ignores Mickey's pleads, “You see that kid? He's doing fifty push ups for swearing. That's one of the rules here.” His taps his hand onto a piece of paper, listing off the rest with command. “No drinking, No drugs. No playing around. No being late. None of that. If you stick by them there's no problems, you know what I'm saying? I don't need that here, especially from you. We have a system here, you break it you're out.”

Despite knowing that he's probably breaking around four of the rules by now, Mickey assures him with a tinted smile, shifting the handle of his bag higher over his shoulder. “Sure thing, man. I'll stick by the rules, I'll handle it.”

Derice jabs a finger into his chest, “It's my job to protect those kids. I'm here to train them so when they grow up that can make it. You know what I mean?” He sighs a little, before asking Mickey with a sincere offer, “You ready to work?”

Mickey feels as if he's starting to sort things out – this was the first step – and that someone was looking out in his favour. “Yeah, Yeah. I want to sort this shit out.”

The trainer shakes his head, leaning further over the table. “Because the thing is, Mickey, you won't be able to throw a punch, in or out of the ring, until I tell you to. That clear?” His look is intimidating, burning holes into Mickey's body, churning his insides, and he feels as if he's not in control, still, and that this guy was serious.

Erratically, Mickey feels his head nod towards the offer, finally accepting. “Yeah, fuck it. I'm in.”

The other man makes a disgruntled groan, again shaking his head in disappointment. “You're swearing again. Did I tell you to swear? Didn't I just tell you not to swear?”

Swearing was Mickey's fist language – he grew up thinking that fuck or shit were just part of the dictionary. This was something he could handle, though, even if it took a while to get to grips with it. Ian was always telling him not to swear, it could come to great use back at home – if they ever got back to that.

Mickey chews at his bottom lip, agreeing, “Yeah, you did. No swearing, I get it.”

Derice raises his fist before his face, voice droning forward. “Boxing isn't about these.” He presses his finger into his temple, “Boxing is about this. Boxing is like a chess game.”

He's fucked then. Mickey had never played chess in his life, even when Ian begged and pleaded him to just sit in-front of a board to move a couple of wooden pieces from each square to the next. It didn't attract him, at all, and relating it to boxing was something different, strange even. He needed this job, though, he needed to present himself as a responsible parent, he needed to secure himself and his money to actually pay for Ian's hospital fees. He needed to get back to being good again.

Soon, his words come tumbling out, stuttering, “Yeah – fuck – yeah, I mean, fuck that. Yeah.”

“Wait,” Derice stands from his chair, reaching out his left hand. “Are you on drugs?”

Sure, Mickey had been drinking – a lot in the past few days – but he didn't touch that shit no-more. The last time he had snorted a line of coke it ended badly. The memory sends a shock up his back, jolting the bumps of his spine.

 

_Mickey turns to his side, his mind all fuzzing, a glow casting over his eyes. “Hey, man. You ready for round three?” Ian's laid next to him, his head lolled to the side, unresponsive. Mickey nudges his shoulder with a sloppy hand, “Hey, man. Stop fucking ignoring me.”_

_Between the both of them, they had managed to use the last bag of coke. They had stolen Terry's, taking it from his stash in the back of the cabinet after their first round of hot, couch sex. Mickey had more than Ian, secretly pledging that he wouldn't let Ian get too bad, too hurt with the dodgy shit that was sold to his dad, but for some reason his stomach grew queasy, something was wrong._

_He leans up on his elbows, slapping the side of Ian's face. “Gallagher? You asleep?” The glow evaporates, replaced with a shadowing concern. He shakes Ian's bare chest, which seemed to be covered in a cold sweat. “Hey, Ian. Wake up. Stop fucking around.”_

_Suddenly, a groan escapes Ian's lips – Mickey feels himself sag with relief until foam starts forming around Ian's mouth, choking him. The red-head starts to tremble, his body going into a feared shock, his chest heaves as he tries to grasp some air, and the foam piles up beside him. Mickey acts on instinct, this had happened to his brothers maybe once or twice, but this time he felt himself panic – a feeling he wasn't familiar to. “Ian. Shit. Ian, wake the fuck up.” He turns Ian's body to the side, his own body launching over to his side of the bed. “Shit, Ian wake up. Wake the fuck up.”_

_Mickey had always felt like that day was the day he realised._

_He realised that loosing Ian was far worse than he could expect._

Derice doesn't notice the disruption to Mickey's behaviour, and asks another, “Are you intoxicated?”

Lying, Mickey shakes his head, hissing a little as he replies. “Nah, man. I'm good.” Lying wasn't the best thing to do while having a sort-of job interview – but after a cold shower and some food, he would be almost sober and the little white lie would become the truth. “I'm straight. Off that.”

Picking up the newspaper, Derice holds it towards Mickey. On the front had Mickey's mug-shot, his face all battered, his eyes shut, his body slightly lob-sided. The headline read, _The Big White Dope – Milkovich loses everything –_ and Mickey feels himself want to hurl up each drop of whisky that he had shoved down his throat.

Derice places it down, his hand resting at his head, “Did you see that?”

Mickey nods – he had seen it – but instead doesn't dwell on the written words scolding him and ripping him to spreads for the public consumption. “Yeah. That doesn't mean shit-” He holds back his words, recovering from the other man's death stare. “...stuff. I just need a job, man. I need to prove to the court that I can work, hold a job.” He wipes beneath his nose with the back of his head, waiting for a reaction that seemed forever to escalate.

Scratching his face with thought, Derice perches himself at the edge of the table. “I've got a night-man who just had a stoke. He was cleaning this whole place up. If you can do that you can get your fees, you can get yourself a good cheque.”

The offer was plain, simple, a _normal_ job. Mickey wanted to fight, train, hell even help the kids with their sessions; instead he's a fucking janitor. No. No fucking way. He needed to train. He needed to shape up for when he fights again. His voice gets bitter, spitting back and pushing the offer away, “Wait, you want me to clean your fucking toilets? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Unaffected, Derice places his hand up, listing off each finger. “You clean the floors, the ring, the bags, just clean the gym. You wanted a job.”

Mickey's mouth feels sour, his body going back to rejecting everything that it consumed. “You want me to clean up after these fucking punks in here, huh?” Suddenly, his voice level increases, his eyes narrowing. “Is that what you fucking think of me?!”

Derice stares, blank, “You said you needed a job.”

“No, come on, man.” Mickey yells back, disgusted by the offer. He wanted to fight, he belonged in that ring, punching, dodging, taking his anger out. “I'm not going to fucking clean your fucking toilets, come on. This is bullshit.”

“You need a job or not?”

Mickey does _need_ a job; this wasn't what he had in mind. He didn't clean up after people, he didn't sort out their mess. Selfish, or not, he wasn't going to get a mop and sweep the fucking floors of a gym when he could be shaping up, practising in the ring, getting prepared for the next fight. Ian's voice in his head is blocked out, and he feels the shores getting more furious, dangerous, the reinforced buildings cracking in their foundations. “Nah, man. Fuck this shit. I'm not cleaning up after these, fuck that.” He scowls towards the place, storming over to the door he had previously opened and rushed down the creaking steps.

Fuck that job.

Fuck that guy.

He needed to fight.

 

***

It's around two in the morning when Mickey turns up at the hospital; it's reasonably quiet, the parking lot was filled, but their was nothing but silence over head. He watches the door for staff, waiting until there was an empty gap he could sneak through. After everything, he needed to get into that hospital, he needed to speak to Ian.

The normal nurse behind the desk remains distracted and Mickey pulls his jacket's hood over his head, shielding his face from recognition. Taking the usual route, he walks down the hall towards Ian's room; he looks around for the Gallagher's, praying that would have left by that time. The hall is quiet, a couple of whispering nurses near-by, and unnoticed Mickey makes it to the waiting area.

Luckily, it was empty; no one to be seen or heard. It looked untouched. One chair was slightly out of place, whilst the others looked sparkling new. He peered through the window in the door, searching out to see a doctor he would have to hide from. He didn't care about breaching the rules; he needed to see Ian, he needed him to forgive him.

Sneakily, he pushes the door open slowly, his eyes locking to the same, limp figure laying against the crisp, white hospital sheets. Ian's breathing is steady, the slow, rhythmic sound echoing through the brisk silence of the room. The darkness was real; but it still dawned on him, channelling him and smothering him. He rushes over to the left side of the bed, pulling a chair under him as he sat down. His hood falls to his shoulder as his hand darted towards Ian's. Intertwining their fingers, he feels his chest heaving, his emotions breaching his walls.

Finally, Mickey lets out a loud sob, his head dropping to their hands. Ian stays unresponsive, his body still cold, his hands still incredibly pale; Mickey just wants him to wake up, to say something, to run his hands through his hair, or just even a twitch; because Mickey had lost everything and he needed to know that something was still clinging to him, trying to pull him back.

His body shakes vigorously as he lets out his cries, his tears drowning their enclosed hands. Through his breaking point, he manages to cry out, nearly yelling out, “I'm fucking sorry, Ian. I'm so fucking sorry. You – You have to forgive me. I'm fucking sorry.”

That's when he breaks; completely.


	8. The Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) Angst again me so sorry (not really hehehehe)  
> 2) All the italics are flashbacks - there are more in this chapter than usual but I'm trying to show Mickey's scattered mental state at this point  
> 3) I made the bad decision of listening to "Mattia Cupelli - Love & Loss" while writing this so I was kinda crying so yeah - listen to it though, it's a beautiful piece of music  
> 4) REMEMBER EVERYTHING WILL BE OK I PROMISE

When Mickey enters the house he's almost blinded by the brightly, shining lights that had still been left on. He had left the hospital just an hour before; the nurses had ushered him out under the breach of his ban – through begging and pleading for Ian to just _wake up,_ he had found himself at the liquor store buying, yet again, another bottle – or a few – of whisky. His mind is all over the place; the voices drowning out the soft, even loud, noises that surrounded him in reality, and he couldn't find the antidote to rid of it.

_Everything was falling apart – it already had, really – and he couldn't fix it. Not like Ian could._

The house itself was terribly quiet; just a white noise coming from the television set in the corner of the living area. Mickey stumbled at his feet, grounding himself with a hand against the closed, front-door. Groaning, he rubs a hand across his face, eyes all fuzzy and unfocused. All he needed was to sleep – to drown it out – to get rid of the voices that were continuously taunting him and tearing him down. Visions of his kids - his precious babies that he let go so easily - run fresh in his mind, the same image replaying over and over.

 

_Yevgeny's squished between him and Ian on the messy double bed; his coat still hung around his shoulders, stark-black hair all tussled from the wind. Ian's holding their newborn baby in his hands, the red-head matching, almost identical to Ian's, the little babies body so small, fragile, snug in the crook of Ian's arm. Mickey watches with awe at the way Ian places his finger between the babies palm, the little hand opening up to clasp around it._

_Reaching over, Yevgeny gently runs his hand over the babies thin, soft hair. He giggles a little, his smile wide, eyes glistening. “Daddy, is that my brother?”_

_Ian chuckles wetly, eyes still locked to the little boy cooped up in his arms. “Yeah, Yevvy, this is your little brother. Do you know what that means?” Yev shakes his head and a smile forms against Mickey's flushed cheeks. Ian shifts a little, moving the baby in his arms gently, “You've got to protect him, yeah?”_

_Excitedly, Yev nods his head. His eyes follow the little baby as he yawns in Ian's arms. Mickey hasn't spoke yet; his heart still pounding at the recent ordeal; he had been born prematurely and the doctors assured he would be okay if he stayed in the hospital for a couple of days, maybe weeks, and finally when they were able to take him out of the incubator, they took him home._

_Innocently, Yev turns to his fathers, question in his eyes, “What's he called?”_

_Mickey opens his mouth to speak, the words not forming yet because they hadn't really chosen a name yet, nor had they agreed on any, and when he looks up Ian's looking straight back at him, a shy smile against his lips. He looks from their son and then back to Mickey, “Yeah, Mick, we need to name him. We can't keep calling him “little man” or “baby” for the rest of his life.”_

_Ian was right; they needed to choose a name. Yet, people didn't really understand how hard it actually was to choose a name for another person. What if he hated his name? What if the name was too long? Too short? Too weird? Mickey never had to choose Yevgeny's name, and at first he guessed it was easy to choose; his son looked like a Yevgeny, he talked like a Yevgeny, he **was** Yevgeny. But, still, he couldn't think of one, single name that suited the newborn. _

_For days, Ian and Mickey had raided and searched for the perfect name; not yet telling anyone that they had a newborn that still wasn't granted the first human right of their name; and found almost nothing. Until, Ian had began searching through meanings – which name meant what – and found the perfect one._

_Owen :- Younger fighter._

 

Mickey found that his eyes had clammed shut at the memory, tears welling at the corners, and he felt himself grasp to the air around him, his breathing a little lost. He hears footsteps from his side, his face too slow in reflex to turn, and a soft voice that seemed to be rambling.

“So, I went to see Ian today. Me and Lip talked to the doctors, they didn't give any-” When Mickey realises that Mandy's voice is cut short, he flinches. Her hands fall at his shoulders, checking him over. “Mick, what the fuck happened?”

They had talked enough. Mickey didn't want to speak; he wanted his kids back, he wanted Ian back. He wanted his _family_ back. Fair enough, Mandy was doing her best for him – she had always protected him even when he didn't want her too – but Mickey was tired, drained, his whole body wanting to shut down and be swallowed by the pit of darkness that cracked below his feet.

He pushes against her hands, leading himself to the stairs that he didn't want to tackle. Mandy steps before him, worry plastered across her face, her nose slightly flaring. “Mick?” It's more commanding this time, the raw intensity finally drawing in Mickey's attention. Her nose flares at the smell of whisky against his skin, she scowls. “Have you been drinking?”

Mickey's not ready for another lecture. He groans, stumbling again, “Just leave me alone.”

Persistently, Mandy shakes her head. “Did you get that job?”

The job. The fucking _job._ Mickey hadn't yet formed an explanation for the refusal of his employment – he had forgotten that he had to own up to being selfish and quitting at the first hurdle. Shaking his head, he answers back bitterly, “I ain't fucking cleaning toilets, Mands.” He stumbles, nearly tripping over his feet, and takes the path over to the stairs.

It takes a second for Mandy's yell to begin. “What the fuck, Mickey?!” The anger in her voice is enough to make Mickey wince – his eyes burning, hands twitching – and his sister grows more intimidating as her hands flap in the air and her face draws closer. “Did you register any thing I fucking said yesterday? _Did_ you?”

“Just-”

Mandy grabs to Mickey's wrist as he takes the first step of the stairs, her hand harsh against his skin immediately causing his head to whip around. Through her teeth, she breathes, before deepening the hole that Mickey had dug for himself. Her voice is laced with rage, dimmed, “Listen to me, Mick.” Mickey blinks, she speaks clearly. “You either clean those fucking toilets and get your kids back, or you don't and you fucking lose them. Is that what you want? To lose them? For good?”

Like a flick of the light-switch, Mickey feels his blood boil at the mention of his kids being taken for good, away from him, away from Ian. “No, I don't want to fucking lose them! I want them home! I want them here!” Mickey's shoulders sag, his body falling against the step, sitting against it with a slant. “I want them _here,_ where they should be.”

Still stood at his feet, Mandy lets out a huff, her hand combing through her hair. Despite him not looking up, or seeing her, Mickey knew she had been crying; he felt even more guilty. She sighs a little, drowning it out with the squeak of her boot against the marble floor. Resting her hands at the tops of Mickey's knees, she tells him directly, “Mick, you have to choose. It's those kids or it's nothing.”

Mickey already knew his choice – when he looks up he sees the sincerity in his sisters eyes, the same look she gave him when the family services tried to separate them, the same look she gave him when they first saw Ian's downfall, the same look that made him do anything – and he needed his kids back; he _wanted_ them back because they were everything.

He needed to bring them home.

***

_Ian is laid next to him on the grass; his coat wedged beneath him, his fingers tugging at the tall pieces of uneven grass at his side. Mickey is beside him, not close but close enough, with a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. He sucks at the filter, his cheeks going in as the smoke invaded his mouth – he inhales it before blowing out the smoke, up the dark sky that was cluttered with shining, bright stars. Ian had asked him to meet him there – at the baseball field – and Mickey had turned up a mere twenty minutes late, and they had fucked beneath the bleachers. It had been a week since Mickey had been released from Juvie – after he bailed out from killing Frank and punched the cop instead – and it felt strange, weird, to be sat so close to Gallagher, so close that their bare arms were brushing against each-other and they were literally sharing the same air._

_It was silent – neither of them had spoken since Mickey had been bent over, hands clutching to the metal rails as Ian took him from behind – and it was peaceful, different, to what Mickey was used too. Hell, there was never a quiet moment in his house, and somewhere deep down he wanted to thank the red-headed idiot for great sex and for not talking. He didn't understand why but he wanted to hear Ian speak now; it was almost too quiet._

_It was as if Ian could read Mickey's thoughts, sooner than later he was starting to talk, his face turning to the side to look over at the other boy. “Mick,” he starts, voice a little hesitant – Mickey shouldn't, but he felt proud to actually intimidate Ian because over the last couple of weeks Ian wasn't afraid, he didn't feel weak around Mickey - “Do you believe in love?”_

_The question shocks the hell out of Mickey; Ian was always the one to ask personal questions, he had always been the one to bring up shit that Mickey felt his body hurl against. Mickey flickers his eyes over to Ian, glancing over his soft, child-like features, the way his eyelashes hit gently against his cheeks, like a butterfly flapping it's wings, each time he blinked. Mickey shakes himself clean from the thoughts, licking at his lips nervously. He had only one answer to that question, that he felt he would stick with for the rest of his life._

_He passes his smoke over to Ian, trying not to feel the brush of their fingers as Ian took it into his own, and he sighs, tone rough, “Nah, man. I don't believe in that bullshit.” Ian glances over, smoke escaping his lips, a hurt look in his expression. Mickey doesn't choose to notice it, he ignores it, he can't absorb that. Not when his father was on a rampage – this was nothing, it had to be nothing, Mickey wished it to be nothing despite knowing, and realising, that something was there between them, drawing them back together as much as he prayed it wouldn't._

_Ian nods his head, accepting, he exhales smoke, “Why is that?”_

_Mickey doesn't feel the need to explain himself; but he knows he has to, just to shut the kid up. He roughly grabs back his smoke, sucking out the last couple of drags, before declaring with clarity lined in his voice, “It's something that people make up to reassure them that there is good in this world, that there is some fucking light at the end of the tunnel waiting for them. They're idiots for believing in that shit – I've never known love in my life and I've never needed to. So,” Mickey turns his gaze back to Ian, face hard, matching Ian's, “Fuck that shit, it's a lie.”_

_The red-head keeps his stare locked on Mickey, his mouth a little open, body a little struck back at Mickey's blunt confession. He gives a small nod, turning his head back up towards the sky, as if hoping, looking out for the tunnel that Mickey knew didn't exist. Ian finally starts to move, his body shaking as he let out a chuckle, “That's a little morbid, Mick, even for you.”_

_Finally, Mickey feels as if the subject had passed and he had been freed from the horrific thought of love being real. He snorts, reaching to his side to grab another smoke as he stubbed out the other in the ground beside him. “You're fucking morbid.”_

_Ian giggles – his hand falling at his chest - “You seriously need to upgrade your come backs, Mick, you've got a reputation to keep up.”_

_Mickey pulls up his middle finger, shoving it into Ian's face, “Fuck off, you prick.”_

_After the laughter – and the grunting – died down, Mickey feels himself starting to go drowsy, tired, his body wanting to shut itself down. He wants to turn onto his side but he would be facing Ian, he couldn't get that close, and Ian would possibly take it as an invitation to turn too. He stays put, watching as the dark, polluted clouds ran through the pattern of the stars; he really fucking hated stargazing._

_Ian leans up on his elbows, letting out a exhausted sigh, “You know, I think love is real.”_

_Mickey's face scrunches up; it was fucking typical that Gallagher believed in that shit, the soppy fucker would believe anything that was displayed in-front of him. Mickey shakes his head, taking a drag from his cigarette. He exhales, “You fucking would.”_

_Running a hand through his red, feathery hair, Ian turns to his side, looking directly over to Mickey with a strange, unusual hope in his eyes that Mickey didn't get recognise. His mouth opens and closes, trying to form something to say, or a way to say it, and he chuckles as he finally bucks up the courage to do so, “I'm serious. I think I've fallen in love.”_

_Mickey can't help but bark out into laughter, “With who? Towel-head?”_

_Ian's eyes lock to Mickey's, his mouth unmoving, telling him the answer that deep down Mickey already knew but didn't want to realise. Ian lets out a shaky breath before breaking the gaze, and Mickey feels himself go light-headed. Shaking his head, Ian rolls over to his back, his voice smaller, as if scared some-how, “No. You wouldn't give a shit anyway.”_

 

Mickey clenches tightly to the blanket wrapped around him, his body curled into a foetus position as his eyes puffed in the after shocks of his sobs – _what had he done._

***

Iggy's pick-up truck pulls up outside the family services unit; Mickey slumped in the passenger seat, nervously picking at his fingers as his eyes flickered up every couple of seconds. It was the first time he could see his kids again, hold them, speak to them, just _be_ with them and he had never felt more scared in his whole life. The voices had picked up speed, volume, all running around in his head, but he felt himself starting to build those walls back, to protect himself, to battle against the incoming chatter that invaded his mind.

His brother pulls the car to the stop, his hands falling from the wheel. He turns his head over to Mickey, letting out a lousy chuckle, “Man, I never thought I'd see one of this joints again.”

 

_Mickey kicks at his brother's shins, pulling off the blanket that he had wrapped around himself. The lights were meant to be off by eight; the night-watch had been down, checked each kid, ticked off who was there and who wasn't. Mickey hated this place; he wanted to go home. Hell, he was only eight and he needed to get out, he needed to get back to his own bed. His big brother was in the bed next to his, fast asleep, content. When Mickey kicks at him, he shoots up, arms rushing out to protect himself. When he focuses on Mickey beside him, he groans, falling back against the hard mattress, cursing below the blanket. “What the fuck, Mickey!”_

_Leaning down, Mickey pulls a small knife from his shoe; he had already got changed after the night-watch had done their patrol and he was planning on picklocking the door for a quick escape out of the shitty place. He twists it in his palm and Iggy looks up, a smirk rising against his face, he sits up whilst Mickey asks, “You coming or what?”_

_Iggy nods, pulling on a pair of pants that he had discarded on the floor. He grabs his little brother by the shoulders, “We need to get, Mands.”_

_Mickey's body starts to shake with laughter, nodding his head towards the window, where they both heard a honking of a car horn. Smirking, he tells his brother with pride, “Found her.” For an eight-year-old, Mickey had criminality thriving through his bones, but he needed to feel it in order to survive, he needed to have it to keep blood spilling out of their family._

_Ruffling Mickey's dark mess of hair, Iggy laughs, “I love this fucking family.”_

 

Mickey looks down ashamed, clicking the handle of his door open and pushing at the metal frame. It swings open as his legs move out of the car, he smiles weakly at Iggy and squeezes at his shoulder before getting out. “Don't get used to it, I'm getting them out.”

His brother's hands grab at the wheel, smiling back at him. “I know, man. I know.” One hand falls from his grip and threads through his dirty-blonde hair, and he reassures Mickey with just one look; the same look he gave that night they had broken out of family services and fled back home. When Mickey steps out, slamming the passenger door closed, Iggy calls out, “Hey, Mick, say hey to the kids for me!”

Mickey nods, solemnly, and starts walking towards the old building. It looked like a convent, the bricks old, the religious monuments scattered against the little patches of grass surrounding the place. Mickey wished Ian was there, by his side, because without him he couldn't control his rapid heartbeat, he couldn't control his fear to see his own kids.

***

The woman at the desk scowls towards Mickey, checking over his slanted state and still, busted eye and lip, “Can I help you, sir?”

Mickey leans over the desk in the small reception, pulling up the sleeves of Ian's hoodie that was wrapped baggily around his body. Grabbing a strayed pen, he pulls closer the stack of forms that had a list of questions printed on them. “Yeah, uh, I'm Mickey Milkovich. I'm here to see my sons?” He scribbles his name into the form. “Yevgeny and Owen Milkovich.”

The receptionist quickly grabs her phone, tapping against the numbers to call. Mickey continues to fill in the form, his hands shaking wilding, and his chest heaving with sweat. This was the beginning – not the job – just seeing his kids, talking to them, letting them know that they were the most important people in his life. He needed to earn their trust back.

 

***

It's bullshit. That's what Mickey keeps telling himself, anyway. A woman had called him into a smaller room, a file beneath her arm, and a suit filling her attire. She gestures to a chair for Mickey to sit on and places herself at the opposite side of the table, her own stack of papers and a ball-point pen in-front of her. She clears her throat, before looking over to Mickey who continuously looked at the door, waiting for his kids to just walk through and embrace him.

She licks her lips, disregarding Mickey's urgent manner, “Right, Mickey. The court is requring drug tests twice a week and you give samples one a month, right?” She turns a page over in her stack, glancing over to Mickey who slightly swayed in his chair. “If you fail on this one, I have to report it. You know that right?”

Mickey's not really listening; he's still looking over to the same door that he hoped his kids would walk out of. He didn't care about tests, forms, idiotic questions, he just needed to see them. Knowing that he was literally yards away, hell maybe meters, away from his kids – that he hadn't seen in days – was killing him, it was like dangling a carrot in-front of a donkey. He couldn't yet reach them, but when he found the strength he finally would.

Leaning against the table, he rubs a rough hand down his face. “When can I see them? I _need_ to see them.”

For a second, she looks as if pitiful, as if maybe she understands Mickey's pain; but she doesn't. Again, she turns over a page in the stack of papers on the table, “Once we've got through these forms. I understand that your husband, Ian, is in critical care? Is that right?”

Mickey feels anger ride up his throat, “Yes.”

She nods, ticking off something on the paper; Mickey leans further in to see what she was scribbling against the page. Her hand twitches against the pen, her fingers pulling off and placing back down against the plastic casing, “Mickey, can you tell me your current address?”

Sniffing up, Mickey looks over to the door again, and turns back to the woman sat before him. He scratches at the side of his mouth, “I didn't sell the house, so, I'm at the same place.” She nods for him to continue, and he mumbles, “345 Meadow Close.”

This was bullshit – he just needed to see his kids not to complete an exam.

She hums, yet again recording each word he said onto the paper, she asks another, “Okay. Okay. Have you searched for employment yet?”

Mickey lies – he would do anything to see those kids, even if that meant lying about some lousy job in a run-down gym – and glares towards her, “Yeah, of course I have.”

“Where?”

With his chest tightening, Mickey bites hard against his lip, trying helplessly not to open up the cut that rested against the broken, pink skin. Stuttering a little, his breath gets caught when looking back towards the door – eyes locked to the unmoved handle – and he answers, “Uh, the gym.”

The woman records it down, “The gym?” She asks, mocking him a little.

Mickey leans against his elbows resting at the surface of the table, he rubs at his eyes, trying to clear his fuzzy vision. “Yeah, Derices gym. It's on 156 street.” His eyes watch her hands scribble against the paper, each word he spoke recorded against the dotted lines; he wanted to smack the pen out of her hand, he wanted to run through the door at his left and take his kids home.

Tutting, she rests her pen down for a second, “Who got you that employment, Mickey?”

Scowling, her bitterly remarks, “I got it my-fucking-self.”

Intimidated from his bitterness, the lady frowns towards him, her voice laced with command, “No. Who _gave_ you the job?”

Mickey folds his arms against the table, his face scrunching up, “The owner of the fucking gym?”

“And his name is?”

He's sick of the questions; he's sick of people asking him things he doesn't even care about. All he needed was his kids, all he needed was Ian back with him, all he needed was everything to be how it _was._ Mickey knew by lying he could easily be caught out – his first impression wasn't as good as he expected it to be with Derice – so he hesitates before he answers clearly, “Derice. Derice McDonald.”

She scribbles it down. “Does Derice McDonald have a number I could call?”

Mickey shakes his head; these days he had forgotten he even had a phone. “Nah, man. I don't even use my phone -” He scratches the back of his head, clenching his eyes shut for a second before reopening them – the little green faults in his sight covering his view.

Giving him a slight nod, she records his answer. She continues to go on, “How much do you get paid?”

 

_He wanted to see his kids. Was that too much too ask? Did she have to battle on with questions that he had no clue how to answer to?_

 

Rubbing his hand at the back of his neck, he lets his response grow low, he doesn't feel like shouting – or getting kicked out – when there was a chance that his kids were behind the door that sat so close to him, “We haven't discussed that yet. When can I see them?” His voice is pleading, a sound that he never recognised before, and he hates it.

Mickey hates that he has to plead to see his kids; it shouldn't be like that.

Stopping her pen, she looks up, ignoring his question,“So, you haven't started the job yet?”

Feeling himself stutter, Mickey lets out a tired breath, looking back over to the closed, wooden door that separated him from his kids. _He needed Ian there._ “What?” He asks, almost dazed, and she repeats herself. Mickey leans places his arms back onto the table, “You just asked me if I secured a job and I _have?_ Can I see them now?”

She clasps her hands together, looking down towards her papers. “Have you taken drugs, Mickey, or anything with alcohol in it?”

Mickey's sick of people accusing him of that; they didn't understand, they didn't realise that he was hurting from the inside and drinking was the only way to block it out. Though, this morning, he hadn't drank, smoked, nothing – and yet he was still being questioned. Mickey was tired. “No, but I haven't slept very well. My husband is dying, my kids are in here, would you sleep well if all of that happened to you, huh?”

Ignoring him, _again,_ she asks, “Are you on any form of medication?”

A growl escapes Mickey's throat as he speaks, frustrated, “I took some fucking Advil.”

Again, she scribbles it down in her notes, writing his words onto the lines that spread across the page. It was ridiculous. All of this was bullshit. Mickey shouldn't have to answer a million questions just to see his kids. They were _his_ kids, he could see them whenever he wanted to. He feels himself spit out the words, “What? You're going to write that down? I took some fucking Advil, Jesus Christ.” Sarcastically he recalls back, “ _He took some Advil, now he can't see his kids.”_

With a soft voice, she explains, “These are the questions on the forms, Mickey. This is what we have to go through.” She leans back against her chair, her arms folded at her lap.

Mickey feels his body wanting to curl up in the seat, his hands falling at his lap, fingers scratching against the rough material of his sweats. He feels his blood boil, “Go off the fucking test? That's what they're for, aren't they?”

She shrugs, “I wanted to ask you because we're about to see Yevgeny and Owen and I want to know what kind of shape you're in.”

Broken. That's what shape Mickey was in. He felt numb most of the time, like his heart had been ripped from his chest and trampled on by a stampede. He didn't have a shape; he was floating around a ball of darkness, swallowing him whole, taking him away from the ones he loved. His family moulded him together; Ian was cooped up in a hospital bed, unmoving, and his kids were sleeping in a worn-down family services unit – he needed to remoulded, shaped by his family and without them he couldn't do a damn thing.

Stupid enough, Mickey finds himself laughing, because he would never be back in shape, he would never be okay unless Ian and the kids were back at his side. The laughter isn't even real, it's just tumbling with nerves, “Shape? I'm a fucking mess.” He cuts out his chuckles, his voice growing louder, urging, “When can I see my kids?”

Unimpressed, she scribbles against the paper quickly, before leaning back in her chair. She clicks her tongue, eyebrows raised, “Do you think you should see your kids when you're a fucking mess?”

Never did Mickey want his kids to see him like this – he had buried this side of him years ago – but he knew that seeing them would make it better, would give him hope, ground him from his floating body and mind. He swallows harshly, “If I see them I will feel a lot better, aright?”

“Will _they_ feel a lot better?”

 

_Ian's hands are cradling Mickey's bruised, bloody face, fingers shaking around his skin. He's kneeling before Mickey, tears brimming at his eyes, shaky breaths leaving his mouth. Mickey tries to free himself from the hold, trying to free Ian from him, “Ian, just go. I'm a fucking mess, you don't deserve this – just fucking go-”_

 

_Mickey feels Ian's hands tighten around his face, his body leaning in closer to his. Ian's face balls up into anger – hurt – and he spits out, “Fuck you. Fuck you, Mickey.” When his shoulders fall, he lets a tear fall down his cheek. “I don't care if you're a fucking mess. I don't care if you're drunk off your ass, or beating me up, whenever I see you – I feel – I feel so much better.” He rests their foreheads together, exhaling. “So, don't fucking tell me to leave.”_

 

Mickey nods, palms twitching, body growing cold. “Yes. They would. They need to see me.”

She leans against the table, her hand reaching for the pen, and then she asks, “Do you feel in a fit state to see Yevgeny and Owen today?”

Mickey knew it – she was against him. They all were. The judge, the doctors, Lip, everyone around him was slowly pushing him away, because they knew; they knew that Mickey didn't deserve the kids, or Ian, and they wanted to rid of him for good. He spits his words out, growing agitated each time her hand clutched around the pen, “You want to help me? You want to fucking help me, huh? Is that what you want to do?”

Her face grows stern, “I want to help Yevgeny and Owen.” She places the pen down. “They are my first priority, to have them safe.”

 

_To have them safe._

 

_Safe._

 

_Were they not safe with him? Their own father?_

Mickey wants to hurl, chuck his chair against the wall, something to release the tightening clench against his chest, the pressure almost unbearable against his heart.

***

Mickey's sat at a small table, facing two double doors. He hears the click of the hinges and immediately looks up, hope reforming in his chest, and he sees the woman from earlier walk in, behind her his two sons. His heart nearly breaks out of his chest – pumping the blood around rapidly – he had never knew how much he could miss them, how much he needed them, but looking at their little faces he couldn't resist smiling wide. “Hey!” He calls out, happily.

Yevgeny has his arms crossed, his black hair messy against his scalp, a scowling look pressed against his face as he held Owen close at his side. Owen was smiling, his face brightening up at the sight of his father, a large jacket pulled over his shoulders and almost drowning him, and he runs over the table, yelling, “Daddy! Daddy! I missed you!”

The woman follows, her hands at Yev's shoulders, bringing him over to the table. Mickey opens his arms, letting Owen crawl into his lap to wrap himself around him. “I missed you too, little man.” He kisses into his hair, looking over to his eldest son who held a blank expression, arms still crossed, gaze down at the table.

With his arm around Owen's middle, he reaches his hand across the table. “Hey, Yev.” When he doesn't get a response, he feels the fear wash over his body, he steps up whilst pulling Owen to his hip. With his freehand he pulls out another chair, placing it next to his Yevgeny's. His son doesn't look over, nor does his speak, he looks dead in the eyes and angry – oh boy, Mickey knew he was angry because he had that look many times. Owen absently plays with a tractor in his hands, rolling it over Mickey's thigh, making sound effects each time he moved it.

Mickey grows more concerned, keeping one arm still tight around Owen, “You okay?” He asks Yev, shifting a little closer.

Still not looking over, Yev gives a simple, “Yeah.”

Something dawns on Mickey – Yev was angry, sure, but it wasn't at the world, it wasn't at the fact that his father was hooked up to wires, nearly dying in a hospital bed, it was because Mickey had let him down, he didn't feel safe, or protected. When Owen leans towards the table, moving his tractor against the surface, Mickey keeps his grip tight around him but asks the woman – that annoyingly hovered - “Can you give us a second?”

She turns to Yevgeny, asking softly, “Yevgeny, are you comfortable with that? I'll just be stood right over there, by the doors.”

Mickey wants to scream – his son should be comfortable with him being there. This wasn't how it was meant to be – this was what he was like with his own father, driving him away, being angry with him because he failed to protect them. He waits for an answer, hope still there, as he bounces his leg which Owen sat happily on – yet, again, oblivious to what was going on.

“Sure.” Is all Yevgeny says, his voice low.

As the woman steps up, Mickey feels his heart sink. Yev didn't want to see him. He kisses against his son's hairline, drawing himself and Owen closer. “Hey, Yev. What's wrong? What's going on?” His son lets out a heavy sigh, diverting his gaze to the other side of the room.

Mickey bites at his lip, looking around the room too. “Did someone hurt you?” He asks, glaring towards the other kids littering the room. “Did someone lay a hand on you?” He quickly checks over his son for bruises, cuts, whatever sign that someone might have touched him, and he does the same with Owen, worrying like hell.

Yev sighs again, glancing over to Owen who started babbling to himself. “No.”

Pulling Owen further into his lap, he repeats himself, “Yev, if someone's fucking hurt you, you can tell me, okay, you can tell me and I'll sort it.” He would sort it – he needed to – he would do anything for his kids, he needed to protect them this time.

“No.” His son replies, tiredness lacing his voice, his head bowing.

Mickey hates this – he wanted his son to speak. If Ian was there he would do his magic and work it out, he would fix it, he would make it better. But he wasn't and Mickey felt helpless. He lets his voice croak as he finds himself yearning for him to speak, “Hey, can you talk to me?” _Please fucking talk to me. I need you to talk._ Owen finally stops singing to himself and curls into Mickey's lap, obviously sensing, but not understanding, what was going on.

Yev gulps harshly, shaking his head. He looks forward as he speaks, “There's nothing to say, dad.” Finally he looks over, his eyes red, his nose flaring at each word, “You fucked up.”

The words hit Mickey hard, rest in the chest, winding him. It takes a second for him to recover, his whole body tensing as his son spoke the sickening truth. He leans forward, “Hey, don't you use that language with me-”

Owen flinches as Yevgeny's voice increases, “Or what? Are you going to punish me, huh?”

At this point Mickey's body is craving Ian's presence, praying for it, and he couldn't get it. Ian was there to save him, Ian wasn't there to get the kids back, Mickey was alone in this – he needed to sort this, fix this, for the kids and for Ian. He couldn't let them down. He needed to try. Looking over towards the doors and then back, he sighs, “Look, I know you're mad at me right now. Okay, I get it-”

Yev's face scrunches into disgust, shaking his head, “You don't know anything, dad!”

Mickey finds himself speechless – the walls crashing at his feet – and he looks down towards Owen who's quivering in his hold, his eyes wide towards his brother, and then he looks towards Yev and he can feel the heat, the anger, radiating off his body and he just wants to _stop_ it.

His son steps up off the chair, ignoring his fathers pleads and desperate hands, “Can I go outside now?” He asks, looking over towards the woman that Mickey was really starting to hate. The woman nods, giving Mickey a weak smile that made it feel worse.

“Hey. Hey. Hey.” Mickey calls out, hand still wrapped around Owen. “Yev? Yev! Just talk to me!”

His son shakes his head, standing by the door with his arms crossed. “No, dad.” He then grabs the handle of the door, opening it, and calls out to his brother, “Hey, Owen. Come on.”

Mickey starts to shake – still calling out to his son, but remained invisible – he glances down to his youngest in his lap and lets out a shaky breath. The corners of Owen's lips curl up, his innocent smile pulling at Mickey's heart strings, and he wriggles himself up to wrap his arms around his father, his face mashed into his shoulder. “I love you, daddy.” His little voice whispers.

A sob escapes Mickey's lips, his tears starting to fall against the material of Owen's jacket. He pulls back and nods, trying to smile, “I love you too, little man.” There was nothing he could do, but watch his son's walk away, through the doors that once gave him hope.

Owen slowly jumps from his lap, waving as he walked over to his brother at the other side of the room. Mickey tries one last time, yelling out, “Yev! Come on! Let me talk to you!” _I need to sort this. I need to talk to you. Ian would make this better. Where was Ian? He needed him._ His son rejects his shout, still shaking his head in disappointment.

Another boy walks up to the two, hair long against his head, looking back towards Mickey and he asks, “Is that your dad?”

Mickey's head falls into his hands as he listens to Yev's dreaded answer, “I don't know anymore.”

“Yev? Owen? Will you come back – just please – will you-”

When the door slams shut he feels the darkness escape – drowning him, pushing him further into the depths of his own actions, the weight heaving on his head, pressuring everything around him and his chest his tight, constricted, causing him to take short, quick breaths. He can't breathe. He needed them back.

Ian was going to hate him, leave him, just like the kids. He needed to fix it.

His own son _hated_ him and there was nothing he could do.

***

_Yevgeny's curled up in his bed, his blanket pulled up at his chin, his night-light switched on at the side of his bed. Owen, his little brother, was already asleep – his dad had put him in his room because he said he needed to talk to Daddy Ian about something and they might get loud. He flinches each time he hears a shout, it's not usual to hear his Daddy Ian shouting – it was scary when he did._

_Little by little, he starts to make out what they are saying._

“ _I can't fucking believe you, Mick! I can't fucking **believe** you would do this?!” Daddy Ian never cursed, he banned it from the house, he told Yevgeny that swearing was bad, that when people swear they are usually angry. _

_He hears his Daddy Mickey's voice yell, loud, “The guy was fucking asking for it, Ian!”_

“ _Oh, yeah? Just like the last guy was asking for it too, huh?”_

“ _I'm not having this shit, man.”_

_There's a slam of a door – Yev follows the pad of heavy feet against the floor – and then it opens again, “Mick, fucking listen to me, okay?! Just listen to what I have to say. I don't care if that guy was asking for it, what I care about is **you,** this kids, our fucking life, and you're doing everything you fucking can to ruin that!” _

“ _Oh, fuck you. Fuck you!” There's another slam. “I got a couple of bruises so-the-fuck-what! I fight all the fucking time, Ian! That's my job, what's the difference?!”_

“ _You could have gotten yourself killed, Mickey!” Yev curls further under his blanket. “There isn't a referee to call it off, there isn't a medic to rescue you!”_

“ _What does it fucking matter?!”_

_There's a pause, and for a moment Yevgeny thinks it's over, until he hears a mumble coming from down the hall, behind his door. “Because I don't want to fucking loose you. Okay. I don't want to be without you – neither do these kids – that's why!” Then there's a rush of feet, walking down the hall and into the spare room – that Uncle Carl usually slept in – and there's silence for a little while until he hears someone yelling out, “Fuck!”_

_Rushing out of bed, he swings his bedroom door open, his little feet nearly tripping over. His dad – Mickey – was sat on the floor, his back pressed against the white wall of the hallway. “Dad?” He calls out, stepping out of his room._

_Mickey's eyes quickly dart over, his face red, eyes wet. “Shit.” He utters, before pulling himself up and walking over to his son. He whispers, “What are you doing up, Little man?”_

_Yev lets his father embrace him, his arms looping around his neck as he rested against his hip. He leans back against the hold, looking into his fathers eyes, “Daddy?” Mickey hums, starting to walk them back into Yevgeny's bedroom – making sure to be quiet while the baby was sleeping in his cot._

“ _Why was you and daddy shouting?”_

_Guilt flushes over Mickey's face, his teeth sinking into his lip as he placed his son back down into his bed. He pulls the blanket over him, tucking it in the sides, and places a soft kiss against his forehead. Mickey sighs, looking tired, but whispers, “When you love someone you get angry sometimes.”_

_Yevgeny's face curls up in confusion, “But why?”_

_Mickey wipes his hand beneath his nose, “Because you don't want them to get hurt.”_

 

_***_

Mickey needed that job.

 

Now. More than ever.

 

He needed to get his kids back; he needed to make it right.

 

He needed to make Ian proud.

 

Mickey's sat in the dark, against the steps of the old gym he had visited the night before. It's quiet, eerie, as no music fled from behind the door he had pushed through previously. He jolts at the squeal of the door behind, his head whipping around to be welcomed by Derice. The trainer was still in his gym gear, except he wore a woollen hat against his head and keys in his hands, he looks down, frowning. “What are you doing here?” He puts the key in the door, locking it.

 

_What was he doing there?_

 

He was getting a job.

 

He was getting his kids back.

 

He was getting Ian back.

 

He was starting from the beginning.

 

Starting over.

 

_Fixing it._

 

Looking up, Mickey rubs at his eyes. “Can I buy you a beer?”

Derice secures the locks, glancing down without replying for a while, after pocketing his keys he climbs down the first step. “I don't drink.”

At first, Mickey feels as if the guy was implying that he didn't want him there, that he wasn't welcome. But, however, Derice stood still behind him, his arms crossed, waiting for Mickey to speak as if he already knew what he was going to say. Mickey rubs his hands together, running his finger around the metal band that represented his and Ian's love – and he breathes, “I'll take that job.”

 

***

The gym is a mess; stinking of sweat, rubber, and old. Mickey starts off by picking up the skipping ropes, loosely wrapping them around his wrist as he rolled them up correctly. He places them against the table he had had seen them on the day before, lining them up in order of length, each of them perfectly placed. Then he goes to the strayed gloves, dotted on the floor, pairing them up and placing them in the shelves behind the black and white punching bag at the corner of the room. He grabs the face guards too, placing them in the pile next to the door. He grabs the towels from a heap on the floor, chucking them into a laundry basket that Derice at prominently told him to take out the next day. Next, he grabs the mop – his memory flashing back to the old days – where he had to work around three jobs, trying to pay for Ian's medication, trying to get everything stable.

 

_Ian grips to the collar of Mickey's uniform, drawing him in-between his legs. “You know, for a janitor you're pretty fucking hot, Mick?”_

 

_Mickey snorts, leaning into it, “You got a weird fetish that you haven't told me about, Gallagher?”_

 

_The red-head giggles, his hands still roaming over Mickey's chest, dropping down to his ass, drawing him in further. Ian's heat radiates, warming up Mickey's cold hands, and he's starts beaming towards him. “I do love a man in uniform.”_

 

_Mickey straddles his boyfriend's lap, attaching their lips together, his uniform slightly slipping off his shoulder, revealing his bare skin, and he feels Ian chuckle beneath him, his lips trailing from his mouth down to his neck, his collar, his shoulder. Mickey can't help but grin._

 

Moving the plastic chairs from the side of the ring, he feels his breathing starting to clear out, grow steady, the memory still fresh in his mind. When he's finally done, he switches off the lights, causing the whole gym to fall into darkness. He doesn't question why Derice was sleeping in his office, but he didn't care, he just wanted to see Ian.

***

This time, Mickey doesn't bother walking through the entrance of the hospital. The night before – he had asked the nurse to leave Ian's window open (the only nice nurse in the place) so he could climb through. When he rounded the back of the place – he saw the gap of the open window. He smirks to himself, checking the area before pulling himself up against the ledge.

Ian's behind the glass – it reminds him of when they truly started to hook up and Ian's idiot, stupid grin behind the glass of the juvenile centre – and Mickey tries not to put his hand against it.

 

_Take your hand off the fucking glass._

 

He blinks his eyes shut, taking in the night, fresh air and finally breathes. For a second, he felt as if he could just balance against the ledge and just stay there, looking in on Ian; memorising each feature, trying to accept the fact he was still unresponsive, still no smile, the tube still hooked into his mouth, feeding his lungs with air. Instead, he pushes the window up further, ducking his head beneath it and dragging one leg inside.

There's nothing near the window – Ian's bed was against the wall next to the window, but not in the way, and Mickey lets himself fall onto his feet from the window. He stands still for a moment, glancing around with shaky hands, his mind trying to clear itself from the image of his sons leaving through the door, away from him.

The chair is still there from the last time he came – unmoved, as if waiting for him. There's a jacket – he guesses is Debbie's or Fiona's – against the couch in the corner, stuffed behind a cushion, and a couple of empty bottles of water resting against a small table beside it. Brushing himself off as he closes the window shut, he pulls the chair closer, sitting himself down against it.

Ian's the same; pale, laid on his back, eyes shut – his eyelashes still resting against the soft skin of his cheeks, just like when they had been laid against the grass – and his hands at his sides. Mickey leans in, wrapping both of his hands around Ian's limp one. He kisses the skin lightly, with his rough, cracked lips still tinged with salt, “Ian.” He whispers, still hoping for a response.

The emotions don't differ, don't leave, they still come to life each time he saw him like this. He whispers, repeating himself. “Ian?” He just wanted the idiot to wake up, to say something, to just _smile_ and tell him that everything would be okay. Ian was best for that; reassuring him.

Trying to push back the sob that clogged at his throat, Mickey chokes on his spit, “Man, he hates me.” He confesses, sniffing up, glancing over to Ian – his slow, steady breathing giving him strength. “My own son _hates_ me. What do I do?”

Ian always knew what to do; he always had a plan. Mickey was always the in the moment guy – without any consideration for plan B or even a plan A.

He cries into their hands, his fingers tight against Ian's. “Please tell me what the fuck to do.”

Silence basks over the room and Mickey's still waiting for that response, that smile, that giggle that Ian would make every time Mickey shed a tear. But, nothing. Ian was still there; he had to be; but he wasn't simultaneously. Mickey felt hopeless, he needed Ian to _help_ him, like he'd always done.

Letting out a uneven breath, Mickey stutters, “I – I need you, Ian. I fucking _need_ you.” One of his hands drops from its clasp around Ian's and threads through Ian's soft hair. Mickey bites back the sobs, his chest deflating and rising rapidly, trying to hold it all in. “Wake up. Please – just – I _need_ you to wake up.”

Again, it's silence that greets Mickey. Despite taking the first step to getting the kids back, Mickey still felt helpless, he still felt guilty, broken, lost. He leans his head against the space on the mattress by Ian's arm, his fingers firm around Ian's cold hand. “He _hates_ me.” He repeats, still not believing it himself. “He hates me and it's all my fault and Owen's too young to understand, he doesn't realise what a mess I am. When he does he'll hate me too." 

Mickey's half expecting someone to walk in, to take him out, but it's even more quiet, as if it was just him and Ian left in the hospital. It was peaceful, something Mickey needed, something he yearned over for the past month. His grip grows harder, not wanting to let go, but he feels himself slipping and he can't land his feet steady, he can't stand, he's falling.

Mickey laughs wetly, looking at Ian's limp body. “I know what you'd say, you know. You'd spring your insightful bullshit on me, telling me that he's a kid, he's hurt, and that he needs his space. But you didn't see the look in his eyes, man, he really fucking _hates_ me.” He's rambling, he knows, because some-where deep down, in the core, he believed Ian could hear him.

A minute passes and Mickey bucks up the courage to speak again, “I don't expect you to forgive me, Gallagher, I really don't. I fucked up. I let some strangers take our kids – how could I do that? How could I let them down?” He stifles back his cry. “I'm getting them back, though, I am. I'll fight if I fucking have to, but I'm getting them back. I'm taking them _home.”_

His eyes clench shut in pain as he recalls Ian's pleads on the lobby floor, his body waiting to go into panic, his bones ready to crack, break. Ian's there, still breathing, his beaming light of hope – and he feels his body reacting to it. His hands grow warmth, as if Ian was transferring his light into Mickey, and he kisses against their hands, the tears falling against the skin.

“I got a job.” Mickey confesses, brushing his finger across the metal band above Ian's fourth knuckle. “I know, seems fucking crazy. Me _working._ But I am. I need to sort this shit out, I need to get them back. I'm getting them _back,_ I promise.” He's still waiting for Ian to answer, his heart sinking each time he realised it wouldn't come.

Shifting to the edge of his chair, Mickey whispers, his voice soft but broken. “Whatever happens, man, I'll be here. Okay?” His words are out of character, different, but he likes the taste of them against his lips, like they belong. “No matter what happens, Ian, it'll be okay as-long as we are all together. That's all that counts.”

 

_Ian curls his hands around his waist, his face red, eyes filled with tears that fell continuously down his cheeks. He shivers, waiting by the door with a bag over his shoulder. Mickey runs to him, pleading him not to leave, trying to take the bag away from him but Ian refuses._

_His voice is broken, shattered, “You don't have to do this, Mickey.”_

_Mickey senses his body wanting to fall, but he stands his ground. “What? You don't want me to fucking care for you? What, Ian?!”_

_The redhead cries out, his sobs causing Mickey to flinch. They are barely meters apart and Mickey hesitates to touch Ian. Ian shakes his head, pursing his lips together in a way to stop himself from letting the sobs wrack through his body. “It's never going to okay, Mickey. You have to realise that you won't be happy with me when I'm like this?!”_

_Stepping forward, Mickey gulps. He could take the easy way out, he could leave Ian and carry on with his life beating up dealers, scum-bags, and trying to look after a baby all at the same time, but he didn't want to take that route – he wanted the hard way, he wanted to risk everything, if everything was going to fall apart he needed to catch Ian._

_Placing his hands around Ian's face, his thumb brushes away a stray tear, he lets go – finally – his own voice nearly cracking with the words. “No matter what happens, Ian, it'll be okay as-long as we're together.” He presses his lips against Ian's, letting it linger a little in the soft touch before pulling away and giving Ian a small smile. “That's all that counts.”_


	9. Wicked Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) IM SO SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE THINGS HAVE BEEN HECTIC AT THE MO  
> 2) angst....me sorry...not so sorry  
> 3) italics are flashbacks - for those who may be confused - and I really miss Ian, meh   
> 4) More action next...  
> 5) THANKYOU FOR STAYING TO READ THIS   
> 6) everything will be ok...I promise

Mickey pushes the gym door open, the loud music already flowing through his ears as he stepped into the cluttered room. Sweat dripped from his forehead, dampening around the chest of his grey jumper, and he wipes it off with a sweep of the back of his hand. Steadying his breath, he glances around the moving gym; Derice was in the ring, fists up, teaching some scrawny, little kid how to defend himself correctly. Beside the ring stood a group of five, all leaning against the ropes, some smiling, some taking in each action and jab their coach taught.

Wanting to smile at the basic training, Mickey ducks his head. He hears Derice call out the kids, doing the actions himself, “Right, move forward.” The kid moves forward, fists before his face with bandages wrapped securely around his wrists. “Step back.” Again, the kid follows the command, hands still tight at his defence.

Slowly, Mickey manoeuvres himself over to the small, plastic chair sat by two tall mirrors next to the cabinet full of worn-down boxing gloves. Taking a pair, that fit, he squeezes the material under his fingers, testing the cushion, the size, the quality of defence. After rooting through a couple, he finds some that would do for now – they were a little small, but they would do. His own gloves remained at the house; he couldn't yet bring himself to wear them.

It felt strange, almost barbaric, that he was doing this for himself – getting ready, wrapping the white, rough bandages around his wrists and knuckles – but it felt better, like he was finally going back to being that thug, piece of trash, from Southside. With his hood up, he ducks his head, wrapping the material correctly around each knuckle.

He grabs the black and white gloves from the floor, pulling one up over his left hand. It had been years since he had tightened his own laces in his gloves – hell, Ian would even do it sometimes and it would turn out better than Mickey's clumsy work. He pulls at one of the strings, trying to make it tight against his wrist, but it's harder than he thought. He really needed more than two hands; maybe another three would do just fine. With his teeth, he attempts to pull at the lace, initially expecting it to tighten but instead it stays the same.

From his side, he hears a pad of feet, the rubber from the soles of a pair of trainers squeaking against the lament, glossed floor. He doesn't turn his head, he carries on struggling with the piece of string that he had been fiddling with for the last minute.

The voice is young, but broad, right at his left side. “Can I get that for you, Champ?”

Mickey finally looks up, the string falling from his mouth. Squinting his eyes, he recognises the boy stood before it; the same kid that he saw the first time he had entered the place, the kid that was commanded to do fifty push-ups just for cursing out loud. Mickey doesn't answer, he just feels a worry in the pit of his stomach at the limp, overly thin figure of the boy, and stands up from his seat, putting his hand out, palm facing up in the glove, towards him.

The kid takes the right glove, pulling it over Mickey's bare hand. He doesn't look up to Mickey, his gaze focused on the glove that Mickey shrugged his hand into. Grabbing Mickey's left, he picks up the two loose strings and grips them towards him, tightening them.

Checking the boy over, Mickey could guess that the kid was around fourteen – fifteen – but he was skinny enough to be a ten-year-old. Mickey tries not the notice the kids worn clothes, the hole at the collar of his red tank that Mickey knew was a cigarette burn. Instead of pointing it out – because Mickey knew how much he hated being called out, especially when it was his own father causing his bruises and broken bones – he asks, “What's your name, kid?”

The kid pulls the lace through the hoops at the wrist, grabbing it towards him again in an attempt to make it tighter. He smirks, as if hesitating, before he answers clearly, “Hoppy.”

All Mickey could think of was that stupid advert with the bouncing bunnies, all of them following the yellow road up to a basket full of chocolate eggs. He really hated that fucking advert, to his luck his two kids had been obsessed with it for months, giggling and screaming at the television set each time it aired.

Nodding his head, Mickey generally becomes intrigued – whilst his eyes latch to the small cut against the kids dark skin at his shoulder – he gulps, “What kind of name is that?”

Hoppy shakes his head, letting out a chuckle as he tied the end of the loose lace at the bottom of the glove. Smacking it, he turns his hands to the other, pulling at the long string that fell by the sides. He rolls his eyes, a little, sighing, “My mum liked those bunnies, you know the ones that went down the yellow road, thing, and try to get the eggs? So, it's better than egg, I guess.”

Mickey lets out a chuckle, the thought making his chest shake in a different way – he imagined Ian doing that, calling their kids a stupid name because of a stupid bunny advert. He watches, examining, each pull and tug Hoppy gave towards the strings, feeling a little pride that the kid really did know what he was doing; he could even say that the kid did a better job than his own brother, but Iggy did get high most nights – he probably had the shakes for going less than an hour with a joint in his mouth.

The kid tugs at the lace, shaking his head as his focus moved to Mickey. “You know, I can't believe that Mickey Milkovich would come in here.” Mickey can see it in the kids eyes; the hope; and he feels himself wanting to tell the boy that it was wrong; he wasn't _great,_ he was a mess that happened to fuck every single thing in his life up. 

Mickey chooses the truth, it was all he had left. “I'm just trying to work, you know, get a secure job and make some cash.” He could, have course, gone back to his old ways and gone out and sold crack, but inside he decided to try respectable. 

Hoppy taps his glove, the lace tied and finished around Mickey's wrists. “Yeah, sure thing.”

People were watching them – eyes like a hawks – but Mickey blocked them out, hoping that the kid would too. He taps his fists inside the gloves at the tops of Hoppy's, giving him a small thank you with a curl of his lips. He glances at the kids work – each lace pulled perfectly, each bow on either hand at correct shape. Hell, this kid  _did_ know what he was doing. 

Hoppy places his hands on his hips, his shy smile breaching under his lips. Wiping a hand beneath his nose, he nervously asks, “Hey, can I get a picture with you later? I mean like, after the session?”

Mickey nods, almost instantly, he felt as if he needed to give this boy something, help him out somehow and if that meant allowing him to have a picture, then so be it. Mickey knew and understood was it was like to live with nothing, hell – his father pressured that lifestyle on him for the whole of his childhood – and he knew it was tough, he knew that one little thing that could give you a sense of hope, could rescue you.

Giving permission, Mickey accepts with a smile, “Yeah, kid. Just let me punch the shit out of that bag first.” He nods his head to the side, towards the dangling punching bag that swayed a little. It had been a long time since he had hit a bag and it was starting to dawn on him that he really needed to get back to what he was in the first place.

Hoppy's eyes widen at the curse and Mickey hides his face behind his glove, “Shit, we can't say shit, can we?” He gets a chuckle in return, his own smile breaching against his lips. They both start laughing as Mickey jabs lightly at Hoppy's small frame, nodding at each hit the kid gave out with tactical precision.

They both walk over to the punching bag; Hoppy standing behind it, holding it at it's sides, as Mickey pulled up his gloves and struck harsh jabs into the weighted material. The kid only smiles, as if with pride, watching him carefully as he thought out each hit. It felt good to feel his fists moving again, to feel a hard hit against his knuckles, to let out all the trapped adrenaline that was caught up in the wave of his prevalent emotions.

_There's nothing to say, dad._

He hits.

_You don't know anything, dad!_

He hits harder this time.

_No, dad._

Mickey flings his fist into the harsh material, the bag moving back against the small hold of Hoppy's arms. He stops, his breathing quickening, noticing the kids eyes wide, trying to work out what had a tight grip over Mickey. Instead, Mickey lets his hands fall at his sides, calling it a short day.

Getting back to what they _were_ was harder than he thought.

***

Mickey's back at the family services unit; again waiting for the same door to open. All he wanted was that damn door to open, he just wanted to see them again. He stands with his arms crossed, his back straight, looking out of the small window that faced the buildings parking lot. Smiling fondly at the distant memory of his sister in the front seat of a pick-up, ready to escape the hands of the place, Mickey doesn't yet hear the foot-steps behind him, nor the voice that tried to capture his full attention.

It's the same lady, her suit a different colour. “Mr Milkovich?”

Mickey swivels around, facing her, his hands tucked in his pockets. With a plead in his eyes and a twist in his gut, he nearly wishes for a bottle, he asks, “Can I see them? Are they here?”

Behind her is empty, no signs of his son's anywhere. He felt lost, even, trying to search them out in the room filled with abandoned kids. He doesn't see them among the young, tired faces, and almost wished that he could see them through the littered crowds.

Pursing her lips, she looks down for a second – Mickey wishes he caught her name because he wants to tell her to _speak the fuck up –_ before giving him a sympathetic look, “Can I speak to you for a moment? Outside?”

It's Mickey's worst fears; they've taken them away, they've decided that Mickey wasn't a suitable father and he would never see them again. He gulps, harshly, looking nervously around the small, cluttered room. Again, he sees neither of them. “Where's Yev? Owen? What's going on?” He follows her out of the room, just accepting that he might have to hear something he never wanted to listen to. His hands twitched in his jacket, tugging at the internal hem of the pockets. When she closes the door to the room, bringing him into the hallway, he rubs a hand through his hair, still searching around – to see nothing. “You want to tell me what the fuck is going on? Where are my kids?”

Stuttering a little, she clutches to the files in her hands, “Uh, listen, Mickey. Yevgeny doesn't want to see you today.” She doesn't look over to him, avoiding his struck gaze.

Mickey's heart starts to falter, the beats running irregularly, his blood now slowly moving around his body instead of steadily. He lets out a shaky breath, trying to absorb her words; but he couldn't. His own son didn't want to see him; his own son hated him; he couldn't protect his _own_ son.

Frowning, Mickey scoffs a little, “What the fuck are you talking about? Where is he?”

With her hands fiddling with the edges of her papers, she shakes her head, her lips forming into a straight, blank line, “He doesn't want to see you, Mickey.” She sighs, letting her head bow a little with pity towards him. _Fuck her pity._ “I'm sorry, I am, but we have to do what suits him. I think we need to give him some space, let everything sink in, you know? It's a lot to take in.”

Mickey feels the air knock out of his lungs, his chest winded, and he falls back against the wall of the hall-way, his hands resting against the brick to break his stumble. His head knocks back against the wall, body refusing to believe it, as he chokes, “Wait – he – he said all that? Just let me fucking see him.”

She nods, as if reluctant to, “Yeah, he did. We have to respect his wishes.”

_Yevgeny didn't want to see him...why? Why couldn't he see his own son? He needed to see him, to make it up to him, because everything was a mess and that's where he should start._

Mickey's a failure; a sad excuse for a father.

With a glimmer of hope, he asks quickly, “What about Owen? Is he here? Does he want to see me?”

He had to grant Yevgeny's wishes – as much as he didn't want to – and he knew that giving his son some space might actually help the rage disappear; but from his experience, leaving it to feed off your mind increased it's ability to fully seize you, making the rage into a ball of hot fire, ready to spit out against the opponent that you held a grudge against.

Mickey already guesses the answer from the sad look washing over her face, she sighs again, leaning forward to squeeze his shoulder. He brushes it off, the woman clutches back to her file, talking to him smoothly, as if he was a child himself, “Owen had a rough night last-night.” Mickey's stomach drops. “He's being having – well – night terrors. Mainly about your husband, Ian, he's pretty shaken about you both being absent. He's resting at the moment, Mickey, but he misses the hell out of you, and Ian, I can tell without even having to look at him.”

He remembers the night-terrors, they only stopped less than a year back.

 

_Mickey pushes himself back into Ian's arms, his fingers intertwined with the red-heads large ones, his back slapped against Ian's sweaty chest. He smiles in his sleep, brushing his nose against the pillow that the both of them shared – despite having a king-size, they always ended up on the same side, almost falling off the side with their bodies literally glued together – and Ian snuffles in his sleep, his lips resting at the top of Mickey's bare shoulder._

_The room is quiet, dark, apart from the few cars driving by, and Mickey feels in a bliss, content and ready to drown out into a deep-sleep, relishing in the thought of finally getting a lie in the next day. His back aches, like fuck, and the bruises against his face are starting to form, but he felt the long, lanky limbs form warmth around his chest and he remembered how much he appreciated it._

_Suddenly, there's a small knock at the door; at first Mickey thought it was someone outside, most possibly pinning something to their front-door like some Lutheran Idiot trying to promote the 95 Thesis’s to the world. But it carries on, stirring him in his slumber, and he turns in Ian's hold, wondering where it could be coming from._

_In the shuffle, Ian falls out of the embrace, resting back against the other side of the bed, his arm still lying beneath Mickey's body. He hums, smacking his lips together before letting out a small whistle from his lips. Mickey rubs at his eyes, trying to distinguish where-the-hell the knocking was coming from – he senses it's from his bedroom door, it sounded close afterall._

_Carefully, he sits up against the mattress, the sheet hiding his naked body; he squints, trying to focus in the darkness; helpless really. Instead, he yawns, headache starting to form within his head, and he steps out of the bed, the cold instantly hitting his bare chest. From the floor, he sweeps up a random pair of sweats – that were mostly Ian's, due to the length of the legs on the things – and shoves them on._

_The knocking becomes more persistent, a grumbling mutter coming from behind it. Instantly, Mickey recognised it; people would say that a child could immediately know their mothers voice, even if they had been separated for a long period of time, but Mickey believed it worked the other way around too. He rubs a hand through his hair and walks towards the closed door, dodging the obstacle course of his and Ian's scattered clothing._

_Pulling it open, he's faced with his little-boy; all flushed in his cheeks, his red, fiery hair all stuck up against his scalp, eyes puffed up with tears, a teddy bear tucked beneath his arm. Mickey's whole face softens as he knees down, his hands falling at his son's shoulders. “Hey, little man, what's up?”_

_As he sweeps a tear from Owen's cheek, the little-boy shudders, his hand tightly gripping to the bear that gave him comfort most nights; the ratty thing had been one of Liam's, a small bear that Frank had stolen years before Ian's youngest brother was even born, and somehow it helped to keep the night-terrors away, but not this night._

_In a splutter, words barely making it, Owen tries to speak, “I – I – I. Bad. Dream. Horrible.” He lets out a little sob, his body shaking where it stood, one hand balled up into a fist as he rubbed at his leaking eyes. “Daddy. Gone. I – I – scared.”_

_Nodding his head, trying to catch each word, Mickey pulls his son into his arms. He had these dreams a lot ; in his little voice, he had explained them once. They were always about either him or Ian leaving, never coming back, and the rest of the family going sad and distraught. They had always reassured him that would never happen – that they would always be a family and nothing could break that – but as a little kid, it was hard to understand fighting and not think that it led to someone leaving._

_Leaning back from the embrace, Mickey combs back Owen's hair, whispering, “You want to sleep with me and Daddy tonight? Yeah?” It was the only way to calm him down; to know that they were both there and no one had left._

_Owen nods, falling back into his fathers arms. Quietly, Mickey steps up, Owen at his hip, and shuffles back over to the king-size. Ian's still asleep, his head lolled to the side, his arm still spread against the mattress from where Mickey had been lying on it. Mickey kissed into Owen's hair, placing him gently against the bed to which his son crawled desperately to Ian's side, curling himself around him with a tight grip around his waist. Ian shifts slightly at the recent warmth, and falls into it, his own arm pulling up and wrapping around Owen's back._

_Mickey was still stood at the edge of the bed, watching, and he felt his heart flutter at the sight before him. In Ian's arms Owen looked safe, calm, as if his fathers arms worked magic and took all the fear away; and Mickey knew that feeling, Ian made him feel like that too. With that thought, he climbs back into bed, grabbing the blanket and pulls it over the three of them._

_He takes one last look, his hand absently stroking over Owen's hair, before he cuddles up to Owen's side. Then he closes his eyes; resting in the now-calm atmosphere of the room._

 

Withdrawing back from the memory, Mickey's body sags in defeat. With his back against the cold, white wall behind him, he shakes his head in self-disgust. She's still standing there, wanting to say something but too scared to confess in words, and Mickey's quiet, re-thinking, trying to create a way to get his sons back into his arms. He had failed them and he didn't even have the chance to fix it, to get them back, to show them how much he loved them; they hated him and he felt himself crumble at the truth.

He feels his eyes grow wet, his vision disorientating into a sudden blur. “Fuck.” He slams his fist straight into the wall. "Fuck! Fuck! _Fuck!"_

 

***

It's dark by the time Mickey finds himself at the grungy gym; he tries the door, even knocking a couple of times, but he gets nothing in return. He wondered whether Derice had given up on him too, that he too realised what a mess Mickey actually was and wanted out before he got even a little bit involved. Mickey had no-where to go; not yet; he had planned to see Ian in a couple of hours, and he didn't want to go home just yet – even though he knew his sister would be waiting for him, ready to talk about the kids not seeing him – so, instead he takes the route to the bar. A small one at the corner of the street, just a few buildings from the gym.

Mickey shoves at the old door, the hinges squeaking as it moved inwards into the bar. Before he realises, he hears a familiar voice; one he had already heard that day.

Derice.

The trainer is leaning over the top of the bar, a glass of whisky in his hand – nearly empty – and his words exit his mouth in a slur, “Hey, Lisa.” Mickey watches from the door as the waitress turns from the till. Derice laughs, “You want to marry me?”

The waitress takes a couple of seconds to answer, but when she does Mickey already knows that she's just going along with the trainers drunken ramble. “Uh, huh. Let me check my schedule, yeah? I'll get back to you, honey.” She turns again, taking his empty glass and refilling it with more whisky from a off-branded glass bottle.

Mickey remembers the trainer telling him he didn't drink? Did he lie just to get rid of Mickey from the stairs? Then again, if someone asked Mickey if he ever lost a fight he would do the exact same thing, just to get rid of the person, and would lie about not loosing. Of course, Mickey knew he had lost some fights, many in the early stages of his career, but no one needed to focus on his mistakes and past flaws. That shit didn't count.

Derice bows his head, sloppily taking a gulp from his glass. Mickey doesn't want to, but he does, and leads over towards the empty stool next to his new boss. Slumping into the near-broken seat, he leans his arm over the bar, and confronts him in a low voice. “What's up, man?”

The older man turns his head, cursing underneath his breath when he notices it's Mickey sitting beside him. He diverts back to his previous position, sighing, “What the hell do you want, Mickey?”

Mickey scratches at his chin, nodding towards the waitress who held a bottle of whisky in her hands, and shakes his head with a dry laugh, “Thought you said you didn't drink?” Despite being one more than often, Mickey really did hate liars.

The trainer scowls, looking down at his new glass. Mickey pondered on the man's next move – he didn't know the guy well enough to hold such information. Derice snaps, his hand wrapping around the small glass, nearly rinsed, with a twitching palm, “What? You think a man can't develop a new habit, huh?”

From experience, Mickey observed his fellow boss. The situation itself was not a one-off, this guy totally came to the same bar every night. Mickey could tell that it wasn't some sudden habit that sprang across the trainer; drinking alone at the bar, at that time of night, was not developing a new habit, it was intentionally feeding that habit, falling into it's black, long arms, letting it grasp you and hold you tightly until the air out of your lungs was nothing gusts.

Mickey sips at his whisky, the burn nearly nothing. Derice does the same, his gulps larger than Mickey's, and he lets out a tired sigh, his hand rubbing roughly against his forehead – that seemed to be clammed with sweat. “What are you doing here, man? Seriously? This is _my_ spot.”

Unaffected by the trainers outburst, Mickey pushes away the small glass of whisky, trying to not notice his watery mouth and curdling stomach. He calls out to the waitress, “Hey! Can I have a glass of water?” In all things, Mickey would have never thought, or imagined, himself asking for water in a place that was running off liquor.

The dark-skinned man jutted his chin before turning back to Mickey, his hand pushing the glass – not empty – across the bar top. “Drinking is a solitary sport, Mickey. It's a solitary one.” He's trying to justify himself, Mickey can see that, but he doesn't realise that Mickey was the exact same, that he drank to drown out the voices, to block out the idiotic world that taunted him, to forget all the hurt and pain that thrived through his body.

Mickey lets out a chuckle, thanking the waitress as she passes him a glass of cold water, “Look, man, I used to tell myself that shit everyday. Drinking is _good_ alone, I do it all the time, but I'm just trying to connect here, aright.” Really, Mickey was, for the first time, but also because he needed this guy to help him – but he wouldn't admit that – and this was the only way.

As Ian would say _to connect._

“I just-” Derice starts, his face still blank, his eyes gone – he still held back.

Understanding, Mickey mumbles his own confession. “Listen, I just don't want to go back home, aright. It's like a fucking prison and I needed out for a while, you know?” It was true, of course, the silence of the house was starting to haunt him, the fact that it was empty scared him more. It felt worse that Mickey had no idea, whatsoever, how long it would stay like that for.

The other man just hums contently, shifting a little on his stool. Mickey takes a sip of his drink, letting the cold water slide down his throat smoothly. A silence draws over them, just the chatter of the couple in the corner and the clinking of glasses from behind the bar casting over the two. Mickey feels as if the silence is following him, stalking him until he gave up and let it possess him just like the dark shadow had done, and he had to stop himself from running.

Derice finally looks over to him, asking, “You got plans?”

For one, the question strikes Mickey back a little in confusion. It was abrupt and no one had ever asked him that before; he never made plans, he just let life take its toll and take him with it. He squints a little, pulling the glass away from his lips. “I – What the fuck you talking about?”

The older man tuts, turning more around his stool. Repeating himself, he lifts the glass from the bar top and cradles it in his right hand, fingers still twitching. “Do you know what you're going to do with all this training you think you desperately need?” He tilts his head, asking again. “What are you going to do with it?”

Mickey already knew the answer; he was going to fight, get enough money to afford all their shit back that was literally stolen from his hands, and get his kids back, and get Ian better and awake; he was going to train, fight, and get his family back.

Stuttering a little, Mickey forms some decent words, “I'm going to fight then I'm going to get my kids back. Ian's going to wake up -” He stops himself short when he notices the other man shaking his head, lips pressed against the rim around his glass. _Who the fuck did this guy think he is?_

Derice looks at him through the corner of his eye, yet again asking an unanswerable question – that Mickey was starting to fucking hate – his eyes narrowing, “What? Then you're going to end up back here?”

Anger starts to boil between the twists and tangles in the pit of Mickey's stomach. This _guy_ was spitting bullshit – he didn't know Mickey, he hadn't seen or been through what he had, he didn't have a fucking clue. Accusations. Again. All tumbling onto Mickey let a ton of bricks; he was sick of people putting him down, having disbelief that he could actually fix this.

With venom, Mickey places his glass down and bites back, “What the fuck are you saying?”

Lowly, Derice continues asking, “Why do you think you're here?”

Mickey knows why he's here. Jay fucking Jones got him here. His whole life falling apart, smashing against the shore as the dark beach; _that's_ why he was there. He had let his kids go unprotected, his selfish mind taking over and forgetting that they needed him. He had let Ian get shot by some fucking scum-bag. That's why he was there. That's why he needed to fight.

His words taste bitter, his mouth scrunching in disgust at the quick flashes that invaded his mind.

_I wanna go home._

_I wanna go home._

_Take me home._

Scowling, Mickey feels his heart fall, the hole in his chest deepening. “Some fucking scum-bag shot my husband -” Over the past weeks, Mickey had tried to teach himself to breathe, to absorb optimism, to try and believe that Ian would get better. It was hard to imagine, or try to stick by, when all his mind replayed was the image of Ian dying helplessly in his arms.

Tilting his head, Derice asks, voice harder, “What do you think _you_ did to end up sitting here?”

The rattling in Mickey's head gets louder; the tunnel getting longer, the light fading. He has no clue what the guy was talking about, he was beyond caring about what other people think, but he felt the need to burst back, to try and understand the truth beneath the bullshit. “What the fuck are you talking about, man?”

Derice attempts to ask, again, his mouth wet and tinged with whisky. In a slur, he looks back over to Mickey with judgement in his eyes, “Why did Ian get shot that night?”

Yeah, because of Jay fucking Jones. That's the only explanation.

Red. That's all he sees. His eyes cast over a spell of anger, his body twitching to break out and burst. Whenever anyone mentioned Ian he couldn't bear it, he couldn't sit there and listen to their theories or crap condolences that meant shit. He didn't want to hear it; especially from someone who didn't even fucking know him. His mouth goes dry, his heart beating wildly, his hands growing sweaty around the half-full glass of water. “Listen, man. No disrespect but I haven't fucking slept and this conversation isn't one I really want to speak about, aright? I don't have any fucking clue what you want from me.”

Derice slams his glass against the bar, his voice loud. “What happened?!”

Mickey imitates his actions, slamming his own glass against the bar top. His teeth begin to bear as he spits out his words, “What the _fuck_ are you talking about? I just fucking said-”

This time, Derice yells. “What did _you_ do?!”

Lower, Mickey finds himself slipping underneath the current. The voices are growing louder in his head, the chatter constantly drowning out his rational thought. The trainers words are replaying, the recording never stopping, and Mickey wants out, he wants it gone. “What the fuck do you want me to say, man?! Why do you keep asking me that shit?”

There's a moment of silence, nothing, and the bar quietens around the two. The door squeaks as the couple from the corner exit and Derice gulps the rest of his drink. His rage had died down, his hands no longer twitching, and in a smooth, undiscriminating tone he asks, “What _happened,_ Mickey? What happened that night?”

Mickey didn't understand.

By now, everyone should know what happened. The papers did around ten spreads of the whole story, each detail – even the fact that Mickey had eaten chicken for his dinner that night. Unless Derice was living in another world, another universe, he should know what happened that night. Mickey felt as if it was a test, that the guy was just building his rage up to calculate it.

This was ridiculous.

Confronting him, Mickey shifts back in his seat. “I just fucking told you.”

“What _happened?”_

Mickey's hands clench at his sides, his own tone becoming familiar from his childhood. His body flinches as he heard his own voice, “Stop fucking asking me that. _You_ know what happened.”

With no physical reaction, Derice tries again, abandoning his glass. “Why did it happen?”

He's a ticking time bomb. Tick. Tick. Tick. Mickey had to be careful, even around himself, to make sure that he didn't let himself blow up. _Why?_ There was no fucking why. Jay fucking Jones was a jealous prick who couldn't take to Mickey's success and decided that the only way he could _beat_ Mickey was to take away the love of his life; to take his heart. Mickey's hand curls around his glass and he pictures his hands around Jay's throat, strangling him until his last breath.

Like always, his adrenaline is high, thriving through his nervous system. In spite, he grunts his answer towards Derice, each word punctuated with his internal, yet physical, rage. “ Why? What the fuck do you mean _why?”_

The other man dims, his body twisting back towards the bar. He rolls his eyes and grabs his glass, shaking it towards the waitress who happily fills it back up. In a grumble, he says, “Never-mind.” Mickey feels his chest heave. Derice chuckles, “You can't even hear the question.”

Mickey's ready to kick the guys head in; he was ready to beat the fuck down, just like he always did when someone made him boil up. His hands tighten around his glass, his mouth drying up, lips cracking each time he jutted his chin to repress his anger. He was laughing; this was all a joke to him. Mickey nearly loosing Ian and having his kids taken away was just a _joke_ to this guy.

He wanted to punch him in the throat.

When the other man reduces his giggles, Mickey turns fully on his stool. “You think this is a fucking joke, _tough guy?_ Why the fuck are you laughing, huh?” His palm twitches, mouth starting to hurt at each clench of his jaw. “Is this shit funny to you?!” Suddenly, his mind takes completely over him, and he leaps from his seat, squaring up to the older man. He slams the glass out of his hand, thieving through his words, “Is this fucking _funny_ to you?!”

Both people behind the bar turn to the noise, listening closely. Derice doesn't flinch, or move to defend himself. Mickey hates that more; he wanted him to react, he wanted to _fight._

 

_Ian's holding a bag of peas to Mickey's cheek-bone, his other hand cradling the side of Mickey's face. There's a shattered look in his eyes and he still hasn't looked towards Mickey. He sighs heavily, his hand slightly shaking against Mickey's bruised skin. It's enough to stop Mickey from whining and hissing each time the cold peas touched his cut._

_Mickey grabs Ian's wrist, stopping him, “What the fuck is up with you?”_

_The red-head swallows harshly, pulling back his wrist from Mickey's grasp whilst avoiding eye-contact with the other man. In a mumble, he says, “Nothing.”_

_It wasn't hard to notice that Ian was upset; Mickey had known him long enough to know when he was hurt. Ian was not only upset, he was angry too. Mickey also recognised it when Ian's nosed flared a little and his eyes would grow hard, his pupils dilating. So, Mickey tries again, this time a little smoother, “What the hell did I do now?”_

_Ian's eyes narrow, his mouth pressed into a thin line. His whole expression turns hard, unmoving, as if it would explode any minute. As expected, Ian started to yell, his hands abandoning the peas at Mickey's cheek, “Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me?” He lets out a frustrated groan, his hands rubbing down his face roughly._

_Mickey stands up, discarding his recent injuries, and stops before Ian. “What the fuck are you talking about?! I got into a stupid fight with a creepy fuck and you're giving me shit for it?!”_

_Red blinds Ian's eyes; his mouth tightening and his jaw clenching. Mickey would usually find it hot, even arousing, but this time he really knew he fucked up. Ian couldn't even bear to look at him; he really, really fucked up. Ian shakes his head before barging past Mickey and picking up the bag of peas from the floor._

_Mickey follows him into the kitchen, still wondering what the hell was so bad about protecting his god-damn boyfriend from some old creep at the diner. Ian doesn't speak, he breathes heavily as he opens and shuts cabinet doors, fetching out a glass and pouring himself a glass of water, and finally putting the bag of peas back in the refrigerator. His eyes don't catch Mickey's; they look blankly around the kitchen, at the walls, at the floor._

_The silence is loud enough, Mickey needed to break that. “Ian?”_

_Finally, Ian's eyes flicker to his, watery and steamed up. His hand clutches to his glass, fingers twitching absently around it's body. In a low, broken, tone Ian speaks, “Mickey, you can't do that shit any-more. You can't fight off all the guys that hit on me; you can't throw a punch at a guy just because he fucking looked at me-” Ian flinches at his own voice. “Fighting does nothing, okay? It doesn't fucking solve that, it doesn't stop anything! It gets you hurt and I don't fucking want that, so please … please just – don't fucking – just don't.”_

_Mickey is speechless; fighting was all he had._

 

Mickey stops himself from knocking the guy the fuck out – instead, he kicks at his stool, sending it across the floor. He slams his fist into another chair, toppling it over. The waitress flinches at his outburst, shielding herself around her colleague. Mickey can't stop; he pushes at anything in his way; stools, a table, a pile of glasses resting at the side of the bar.

He can hear Derices voice yelling out, tauntingly, “See! That's why you're here!”

When Mickey's happy with the wreck of the bar, he stalks over to the door he had previously pushed through and rumbled his way out; the door slams shut, the loud bang echoing through the now-quiet bar.

The cold air hits him like a thousand knives stabbing his chest; his whole body shivering uncontrollably in reaction to it. God, he should have brought a jacket. He stands there, unmoving, and exhales heavily. The rush is subsiding, dimming down to a low, weighted cloud. Despite his reluctance, he feels guilt wash over him like a tidal wave. Ian had told him once that he needed to control his anger, his quick unthinking reactions, but most of the time he would brush it off with a quick nod or a witty comeback. Without Ian there, he feels alone, he wants to regret it but he also wants to praise himself for bursting out like a bullet and trashing the place.

Mandy's voice echoes in his mind, teaching him a valuable lesson that he had pushed past back when he was a child.

_You have to choose._

Mickey realises that he may have just fucked up his only opportunity to become a responsible parent. Lashing out at the only man who would be willing to give him a job, maybe even train him, was a bad idea. It was too late, he guessed. The guy was probably preparing himself for firing Mickey already; he was probably already thinking that before Mickey had even entered the bar. If Mickey looses the job, he looses his kids; and that wasn't an option.

Letting his hands fall free at his sides, he looks up to the polluted sky. The stars are formulated into little groups, all shining up the sky; Mickey had always hated stars. Maybe in school he actually did listen to those shitty-ass science lessons, and maybe he did learn that a star in the sky could be already dead but we just see it billions of years too slow; he hated the concept, he hated the fact that the stars deceived him. They were pretending to give him hope, shining like that, because they were already dead. Stars aren't a sign of hope, not to Mickey, because they revealed the one important thing – everyone is dying, no matter how bright they shine, in the end we all go.

Mickey hated that.

He hated that he couldn't even count on stupid stars to give him hope.

With a sigh, he shakes his head, looking back towards the door he had nearly broken with the force of a slam. He was waiting for it to open, for Derice to barrel out and lecture him or ask him  _more_ questions because the guy was so fucking  _persistent._ Instead, Mickey gives in. He chooses. Just like his sister told him too; at this point, he needed to control his anger, he needed to connect with the trainer because he needed to fight. 

Mickey was always shit with apologies.

 

***

It's been around two minutes since Mickey left the bar in his unordered fashion and it takes him merely less than thirty seconds to storm back through. He feels like an idiot coming back into the place that he just trashed in his fuelled rage, but he needed to do this; not for the dick that interrogated him and accused him minutes before, but for his kids, for Ian.

This time, he pushes the door softer, his body sliding in quickly. The waiter behind the bar puts his hand firmly out, shaking his head, but Mickey refuses to take the gesture and leave. Picking up the discarded and scattered stools that he had kicked down, Mickey utters, “Yo, man, I'm sorry. I'm fucking sorry.” It's a scramble to pick everything up, both the table and the chairs, but he feels his body telling him the importance of rekindling the situation.

The waiter shakes his head again, towel in his hands. “Man, we don't need that shit in here.”

Ignoring the man, Mickey grabs a couple of dollars from his pants pocket and shoves it onto the top of the bar before the two staff. They refuse to take it but he insists. After picking up all of the furniture and a couple of shard pieces of broken glass, Mickey places himself back into the stool he had been perched at.

Derice is in the same place, a new glass in his hands. He mumbles gruffly, “No one wants your money.” He sips at his whisky, noticing Mickey's recent presence beside him. Letting out a tired breath, speaking with his right hand, he asks – as if a plead. “What do you _want,_ man?”

Mickey picks at the wood of the bar, his fingers still cut from his last fight. He gulps down his banished anger and speaks, almost in a whisper, the words a little shaky as his body registered what he was saying out loud. “I never really had any plans, aright? Ian always made the plans for me.” Derice looks over, finally listening. Mickey continues to ramble, his confession pouring out like the water through a dam. “And my sons, well, my eldest doesn't really want to see me right now.”

Never had he confessed this to anyone but Ian; he went to the hospital because Ian was the only one he felt would listen, even if he couldn't. He trusted Ian; with everything; and when it all bottled up inside him, ready to smash, he let it out – waiting for that response that never came.

The wood chips a little at the edge of the bar top, his finger running back and forth against the crack. He stifles back his tears, fighting away the feelings that he hid back for so long, and mumbled below his breath. “I feel like I've broken his heart.”

Yevgeny was his son; his first born. Through the years he had watched him grow into a confident little boy with ambition to do anything. Mickey had always tried to be the father that his own dad was never capable of being and he tried to keep him safe from anything that threatened to harm him. _This –_ his own flaws – was something he could never protect his son from, because it was inevitable that his son would come to realise.

Exhaling, Derice gives him a look of sympathy. His mouth forms into a weak smile and he lets out an exhausted sigh, “Look, Mickey. He's just a kid. He's not a little boy.” He shifts in his side, speaking to the side of Mickey's because he couldn't yet face the truthful words. “He's just trying to take care of himself and his little brother.”

The feeling returns; refusal. Mickey shook his head, hissing through his teeth. “That should be _my_ job, man. _I_ should be fucking taking care of them.”

_And you didn't._

Brushing Mickey's comment off, Derice continues; through his eyes Mickey could sense that the guy wasn't telling him everything, that he too had been in a situation like this, a place that couldn't be escaped in a split second. “They nearly lost their father, too.” Slowly, he gulps from his drink, letting his lips linger for a second before directing his words towards Mickey.

Mickey feels he needs to listen; for a reason he had no idea of, he just felt as if the guy was starting to talk some sense, maybe, and was actually _understanding._

Placing his glass down, Derice adds, tone now neutral, “Even if he hates you, you've got to _let_ him hate you so _he_ can feel better about. So _he_ can get better.” He looks over to Mickey, his words smiting him, wanting him to curl up. “This isn't about you, Mickey. I mean...” He picks up his glass and polishes it off. “You've got to let him go through his thing and not think that thing is _your_ thing. Let him work this out on his own.”

Dropping his gaze, Mickey absorbs the words; each sentence to the next. Who wanted their kid to hate them? Who wanted that life? Mickey felt his gut knot and churn and his organs squished against the tightness of his chest. He didn't have any plans, he didn't have a clue _what_ to do next. When looking down the road to the end, there were too many paths, too many chooses, too many _distractions._ He didn't know which step to take. “Then what?” He asks, voice quiet.

“Then,” Derices shrugs, pursing his lips, “You can get on with life...life...boxing or whatever you want to call it. It's your choice.” Sloppily, he swirls the remaining droplets of whisky in his glass around, his head bowed towards his lap.

_Life –_ that's what Mickey used to call it. Now it was just a slow motion picture, the world moving fast around him whilst his feet stood still against the hard ground. 

***

Mickey's still repeating Derice's words in his mind; replaying it over and over like the sound of a broken record, trying to channel and understand each point.

_You have to let him hate you._

He didn't want him to hate him? _At all._

With a shudder up his spine, Mickey's eyes flicker up to the window he had climbed through a couple of times in the past week; the pane is still ajar and the ledge is still at it's familiar height. Without looking around, Mickey stubs out his smoke before pulling his weight up the wall to the window, balancing himself against the thin ledge.

 

***

Mickey fiddles helplessly with his fingers, picking at the loose skin around his nails. Blood clams in the small space between his skin, drying up against the cold air of the hospital room. With his chair at the side of the bed, his feet hitched up against the spare space on the bed next to Ian's, Mickey sits in the pure silence, listening to Ian's soft, gentle breathing that fled through the tube.

The sight wasn't so scary this time; Mickey had seen it enough, he had felt that crush on his heart each time he laid eyes on Ian's unmoving, delicate frame – that seemed to be getting smaller – and it didn't stop; he had just found a route to control it. Mickey's eyes flicker back and forth towards Ian, waiting for a twitch, a small movement, even a slight hitch of breath. But, again, nothing.

With Ian there – even though not speaking, not responding – Mickey felt he should speak. He hated the thought of Ian being alone, no one to speak to him, and it reminded him of when he had been on his lowest of lows and felt like the world had left him; though Ian possibly couldn't hear him, he didn't want the idiot thinking no one wanted to speak to him, be there for him. Stupid as it sounded.

With the distant memory flooding his mind, Mickey chuckles a little, “Man, do you remember the first time I actually _confessed_ my fucking feelings to you?” He looks over to the bed, realising his stupidity to actually think that Ian would respond. “I thought you'd be fucking ecstatic, that you'd be that little, scrawny fucker with his annoying-ass smile. But you weren't,” Mickey ducks his head a little, wiping beneath his nose. “you tried to shut me out. Tried to push me away.”

 

_Mickey leaps for the door before Ian catches up to it, slamming it shut with his back pressed firmly against it. Ian looks defeated, his eyes tired, his bony frame poking out from beneath his thin jacket that sprawled across his pale shoulders. In a soft voice, that Mickey barely used, he pleaded towards Ian, “Listen to me, Ian, this is what you need-”_

“ _Bullshit!” Ian screeches, his hands waving in the air and falling back his sides. “This is what **you** need! This is what you all fucking need! Isn't it?” He closes the space between them, his nose flaring, his eyes tentatively watering. “I'm not fucking ill, Mick, I'm not ill.” _

“ _Ian-”_

_Mickey's cut short with a frustrated groan released from Ian's lips. The younger boy tugs at his greasy hair, his hands threading through, gripping and pulling. He shakes his head, “No. Just fucking stop! I had a low day, so fucking what? Can I not just be upset once in a while?”_

_There's a rumble in Mickey's chest, it's unusual, but he was starting to blame it on Ian. He inched closer to the other man, his hands hesitating to reach forward to pull Ian in, and he lets his voice run smoother than his body wanted it to, “Ian, you weren't just upset-”_

_Ian lets out a fake shard of laughter, holding his chest. “People get sad, Mickey! Who wouldn't in this place, huh? You said so yourself everyone gets depressed around here!” Mickey feels as if this isn't Ian, that the younger, brighter Ian had maybe passed, but he didn't want to loose any of it, even if the new Ian was slightly off it and was living in straight denial of his disorder._

_Spitting his words out, Ian tries to barge past Mickey, “I don't need you to care.”_

_Mickey's face scrunches in confusion, frustration – the lot. Ian didn't see it; he didn't get that people who care for others need someone to be there for them too. He didn't get that Mickey was trying his fucking hardest to keep it all together whilst juggling Ian and his disorder. He didn't get that – he didn't get...that...maybe...Mickey -_

“ _I love you.”_

_Ian's mouth drops open, his eyes widening with shock. Mickey had said those words once, on the voicemail that Ian had listened to a thousand times, but not in real, not to his face. It's almost to real to comprehend and Ian finds himself not believing it. “What?” He whispers, hands starting to curl around his waist like they usually did._

_Mickey shrugs, letting go, he was tired of hiding it when Ian desperately needed to hear it. Mickey was tired of lying to himself. “Yeah, I fucking love you, Gallagher.”_

_The red-head lets out a shaky breath, his fingers clutching to the material of his jacket, and he shakes his head slowly, mumbling pathetically, “No. You don't.”_

“ _Yes, I fucking do.” Mickey confirms, stepping forward._

_Ian moves backwards, pushing himself away. “Don't say it if you don't mean it, Mick. I won't believe it.” He stops as his legs hit into the side of the couch. Mickey's so close, telling him everything he wanted to hear but he couldn't take it, not yet. “If you're just saying that because I want to hear it, don't. I'd rather hear you say nothing at all.”_

 

The beeping from the monitor speeds a little, shocking Mickey, but as quickly as it changed it shifted back to normal, the beats moving regularly. From where Mickey's body had jolted up in his seat, his back straight, his eyes wide, he slumped back down, deflating.

Mickey turns his head to the side, eyes locked to Ian's face. “Man, I was so fucking angry.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a Snickers bar that he had bought just a couple of minutes before getting there and rips the wrapper open, his mouth devouring the tip of the chocolate. He only wishes that his kids were there to share it with him.

Swallowing his bite, he mumbles on, “For years you grilled my ass to tell you how I fucking felt – embedding yourself into my skin like some itchy fucking rash – and when I _finally_ told you it was like you didn't even want to hear it.” Mickey sighs, looking back over to his husband, taking in his soft, red hair, his small, delicate eyelashes. “You're so fucking irritating, you know? When I actually said what you wanted you brushed it off like it wasn't the scariest thing I had ever experienced in my entire fucking life. You didn't really care.”

A chuckle escapes his chapped lips, his jaw still aimlessly chewing against the chocolate, and suddenly it drops, a sigh replacing his breathless giggles. Ian's face was still up towards the ceiling, the plastic tube still threaded through his mouth, and his pale skin was almost contributing to the crisp white sheets that his lifeless body laid against, and Mickey couldn't look away.

 

_Mickey runs his finger down the bridge of Ian's nose, trying not the wake the other man up. Ian shifts against the sheets, the blanket wrapped around him slipping to his waist as he curled towards Mickey's side of the bed. Mickey halts, his body growing tense; he didn't do this, he didn't admire Ian like this; this wasn't them._

_Ian lets out a sleepy giggle, eyes still closed, his teeth baring into a smile. “What are you doing?”_

_Quickly, Mickey retrieves his hand and tucks it close towards his chest. “Nothing.” he retorts, defending his only sense of dignity._

_With his eyes still shut, his eyelashes fluttering against his pale cheeks, Ian lets out another giggle, his chest shaking a little in his reaction. “You were watching me sleep, weren't you?” Ian's laughing turns into low, humble, hums, his mouth pressed into a tight line to suppress himself._

_The blood drains from Mickey's body from being caught red-handed. Defensively, he argues against Ian's clearly-truthful accusation, “Fuck off, I wasn't doing shit.” He lays onto his back, staring up to the ceiling, feeling Ian's smile from across the bed._

_The bed dips a little as Ian wiggles towards Mickey, “Sure.” he whispers, his breath resting at the bare top of Mickey's shoulder._

 

Mickey clicks his jaw, glancing back towards Ian's unresponsive vessel. In a small voice, that he barely recognised, he says, “You know, I understand now why you did that. Hell, I did it to you many fucking times.” He pulls his legs off the bed, inching himself further to the edge of the plastic chair he was currently sat in. “You pushed me away because you was a coward. _Scared._ You were scared that someone actually might _love_ you, that someone might actually want to take care of you and put up with your annoying-ass.”

He rubs his hands together, the cold room finally catching up to him, and he continues his one-sided spiel, “And you said _I_ was allergic to asking for help. You wanted to face the world like some fucking action hero.” Mickey threads his hand through his messed up hair, fingers tangling with the small knots. “Can't believe I'm saying this but it's good you can't hear me speak; I wouldn't be-able to say this shit to your face without wanting to curl up and fucking die.”

It wasn't that Mickey didn't want to say those things to Ian; it was the same reason why Ian didn't want Mickey to help him when he was ill – Mickey was _scared._

Mickey bites a chunk from the remains of his bar, mouth still full as he spoke towards the silent, dark room. “I, er, went to the family services unit-” Mickey pauses, waiting for Ian to shoot up and kick his ass for getting the kids in there in the first place. “Yev – he didn't want to see me, man.” Mickey feels his face growing damp. “Owen, he – well – he's been having those fucking night-terrors that used to wake us up each night – about you, me, about all the fucking mess that's surrounding him right now.”

After a silent pause, Mickey whispers, “They don't deserve this.”

They didn't. Yevgeny and Owen deserved happiness; something that Mickey thought he was capable of giving to them – his job was to ensure that they were happy. Yet, he failed. He let them down, slowly, painfully and then all at once. For kids, young – fragile, it was like a bomb striking them, unexpected, unexplainable, confusing in all aspects. Mickey had promised Ian they would be safe – that he could trust him – and yet, he failed Ian too.

Mickey's sick of crying; his face was too tired, to rough, to cope with it.

He's found an alternative to channel his emotions, keep them tight into his chest until he laid his head against the pillow crumpled up on his son's bed, and he finds himself nearly shattering. He grabs onto Ian's hand, his thumb tracing over the ring wrapped around his forth finger. Mickey's breathing becomes unsteady, “Listen. The hardest thing about you being in here – fucking doing nothing, like some zombie – isn't me missing you like hell. I don't miss your bad cooking, but I do miss your stupid ass kicking me into shape.”

Mickey clicks his tongue, before confessing, “The hardest thing about all of this is noticing how different my life – the kids lives – is without _you.”_ He shakes off the dreadful thought. “I ain't going to lie to you, I thought about what if would be like – never meeting you – but everything I came up with was a piece of shit, anyway.” Still running over the ring, Mickey smiles to himself. “I ain't good with making plans, you know that.”

Ian made the plans. Ian made everything better.

His body starts to tremble, his palm clasping around Ian's cold, pale fingers, Mickey lets out a shuddering exhale, “I need you here, man – with _me._ With the kids. - so we can sort this shit out. I thought – I thought I could do this alone but they don't even want to see me.” He ducks his head in shame. “They hate me, Ian.”

Nothing felt worse than knowing that his own son's wanted him gone; that they didn't want to speak nor see him. They were his blood; his family. Without them he wouldn't be able to cope at _all._ Mickey always felt as if he had walls built high as mountains, guarding him, and he finally realised that those walls were his _family;_ Ian, Yev and Owen. They were his protection, they guarded him from following the wrong path, relishing in fake hope.

But those walls had come crashing down leaving him exposed.

With all his strength, Mickey gives himself to Ian, letting go into the small, hospital room, his mind escaping and bouncing between the four walls. A sob leaves his throat, his head starting to fall into the eclipse of their hands. Mickey cries, “I just – I need you back. I _really_ fucking need you back.”

Ian needed to wake up; he needed to hear Mickey reach out to him.

Then suddenly, the door squeaks open, the handle turning as the person behind it pushed against his frame. Mickey's heart pounds and his head darts towards the sound.


	10. Creed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so fucking sorry for my late update! I have been really ill for the past two months and have been unable to write anything until now. I do have a little update for you today and I have to be more regular with it now. Despite me not watching this season - yet - because I'm sick of the writers destroying characters, I will forever stick by this ship no matter how much they tear them apart on the show. 
> 
> (I will sort layout tomorrow, because my laptop is fucking up)

“Mickey?”

 

The dark figure stands still at the door, its hand resting against the frame. It's too small to be a doctor – he hopes – and the voice is too kind, too delicate, to be Lip. Mickey sighs a breath of relief at that; he didn't have the strength for another fist fight, and he _definitely_ didn't have the will-power to cope with Lip's bullshit. As the figure steps forward, the light from the window casting a vivid view of the person, Mickey feels his body deflate into the chair. 

 

Debbie.

 

With her hair tied-up in a bun at the top of her head, coat dangling over her shoulders, and her hands fallen limp at her sides, she steps a little closer. Her cheeks were flushed with a red glow, her eyes a little puffy, and her voice almost a whisper. Mickey had forgotten how tall and grown up she had gotten; he always remembered the image of her trying to find her shiv in the midst of the messy Gallagher house.

 

“ _Carl?! Where the hell have you put my shiv?!” Debbie yells out, her voice echoing throughout the Gallagher house. Mickey sat at the kitchen table, the pot of coffee before him and a pile of bacon and eggs on his plate. Debbie knocks the table as she goes past, her hands fumbling around under stacks of dirty laundry and unwashed plates._

 

_Carl comes storming down the stairs, his pack against his back. “I haven't touched your lame shiv.” He places his hand in his pocket, pulling out a knife that Mickey was some-what jealous of. He had no idea that the kid had such a collection. “I've got my own.”_

 

_Debbie groans loudly in frustration, her hands pulling at her hair. “Jesus, Carl! I need to find it.”_

 

_With his mouth-full, Mickey asks, “Why the fuck you need one of them? You thinking of stabbing someone on the way to school?”_

 

_The red-head slumps herself against the side of the counter, her head resting in the palm of her hand. She huffs, “Maybe.”_

 

_Mickey never felt the need to connect with Ian's siblings; they had only just really come out as a relationship, and at this point the Gallagher's only really thought that Mickey was staying there, on Ian's floor, because he couldn't deal with the shit back at home. Besides, Ian was out working and Mickey could use it to his advantage to actually help the kids out; he didn't want Ian seeing that because he'd turn it mushy, like modern family kinda bullshit._

 

_Leaning down in his seat, Mickey pulls out his small knife from the inside of his left sock. He holds it up above his head, his other hand absently feeding him his now-cold eggs and bacon. “Here, take mine.”_

 

_Really, Mickey didn't need to turn around to know that Debbie was giving him the big, gleaming smile that he saw too many times on Ian's smug, little face. The red-head leaps from the counter, gripping the knife from Mickey's hand. Mickey thought that was the end of it; it didn't cost him nothing to give the girl a small knife that was easily made._

 

_However, unexpectedly, Debbie kisses the side of his cheek, gleaming. “Thanks, Mickey.”_

 

_If that was classed as bonding, it wasn't too bad._

 

Debbie looks towards Ian, her face shadowing with pain that was clear, and then her eyes turn back to Mickey. She shrugs, “What are you doing here, Mickey? You're not _allowed_ in here?”

 

Her voice isn't demanding, nor intimidating, and Mickey felt as if she was trying to give him some sympathy behind the protective act. Mickey turns fully in his seat, his hand detaching from Ian's. He didn't bother wiping the access tears from his cheeks. “What? Do you think I give a shit about stupid fucking doctors and their bullshit regulations?”

 

Fondly, Debbie gives him a subtle, weak smile. “Of course you don't.” Slowly, she grabs a stray chair from the bottom of Ian's bed and pushes it over by Mickey. As she pulls off her jacket, flinging over the back of her chair, she speaks, “You know, it's good that it wasn't Lip that found you in here.”

 

To be honest, Mickey was a little bummed it wasn't. He wanted to get Lip back for getting him chucked out the hospital. That dick had what was coming for him most of the time.

 

Mickey awkwardly adjusts himself in his seat, his knee hitting against Debbie's, as she sits down. He lets out a sigh, the truth pouring out. “Fuck, Lip. He's a dick.” He looks back over to Ian, gulping harshly as he felt the tension rise in the small, closeted atmosphere.

 

Debbie gives back a little chuckle, her head bowed slightly. “Yeah, he is.” She clicks her tongue, the clock-works ticking around in her head, and she tries helplessly to find something to explain her brothers behaviour. Because, despite Lip trying to brainwash them all that Mickey was some sore-loser with nothing to give to Ian, Debbie had always liked Mickey.

 

“With Lip,” She starts, hesitating and trying to calculate the right words. “it's complicated. He's just looking out for Ian, you know. _Protecting_ him. He just goes over-board sometimes.” For a second, her eyes flicker over to Mickey's, and she attempts to reassure him with a quick smile.

 

“ _Protect_ him? From what? _Me?”_ Mickey questions, his heart rate quickening.

 

Surely, Ian didn't need to worry about Mickey. Not like that. Mickey wasn't going to hurt Ian – even though, he had already done that – and he wouldn't mean too. Ian didn't need to protecting from _Mickey._ Did he?

 

Debbie sighs, her hand reaching over to Ian's bed. She speaks calmly, “See, Lip always had this strange theory about relationships. I blame it more on Frank and Monica, really.” She fiddles with a piece of fluff that rested at the top of Ian's blanket by his legs. “He believed that when two people who are fucked up are in a relationship, it's a call for disaster.”

 

Mickey can feel heat rising up his spine, reaching the back of his neck. “We're not fucked up.”

 

_We're not like Frank and Monica._

 

Debbie's hand falls at Mickey's knee, squeezing it with a tentative smile. “All of us are.”

 

It's strange, really, that everytime that Mickey finds himself in a conversation that underlines the truth before his eyes, he ends up giggling. “Yeah,” He chuckles, wiping beneath his nose in habit. “Me more than others, though.”

 

 _Fucked up?_ That wasn't even the start to what Mickey was.

 

A small silence draws over them and Debbie just looks at Mickey. Her eyes stay wide, still red, and her hand moves back to her own knee. She lets out a feathery sigh, she didn't want to argue with Mickey so she changed the subject, “How's the kids? They holding up?”

 

Mickey's heart sinks. He closes his eyes in shame, letting his head fall into his hands. “No.” He replies, words muffled by his hands. “Yev doesn't want to see me and Owen isn't sleeping. You know, it's my fault, and I'm fucking _scared_ that they hate me for all of this, and that when Ian wakes up he'll fucking hate me too.” His body shudders, it remains unnoticed he hopes.

 

Debbie places her hand on his back, leaning her head down a little. “Mickey, they don't hate you.”

 

Finally, Mickey uncovers himself from the shield of his hands. “Wouldn't you?”

 

Leaning back in the crappy plastic chair, Debbie shakes her head. “Why do you think that every time Monica came back we _always_ let her back in the house?”

 

Easy. Monica _had_ to be back in the house. They couldn't risk her going AWOL, trying to take Liam, and causing utter shit around the neighbourhood.

 

Mickey's leaning against his knees, looking over to Debbie. He shrugs, “You didn't. She just appears like a fucking rash.” She did. Just like that time she had whisked Ian away – trying to show him a better life, trying to get him to live the life she already had. Just like a rash, she would vanish all over again, leaving Ian, leaving all of the Gallagher's to fend for themselves.

 

Debbie laughs a little, “Sure, she's fucked up _a lot._ We can't even have a family thanksgiving dinner without remembering what she did.” She fiddles with her fingers. “But, we don't hate her. We should, I mean like you said _who wouldn't?_ But she's our mom, Mickey. We didn't hate her, not even after she ran off time and time again, we were just _angry._ ”

 

Her point is clear. Mickey's gets it. It's not the same; yeah, Monica slashed her wrists in the middle of the kitchen in-front of all of her kids. Yes, she tried to take back Liam despite never giving a shit about him before. Yes, she had _fucked_ up. But, this wasn't the same.

 

Mickey had destroyed his family; their lives.

 

He shakes his head, his hand sweeps across his eyes to rid of the stupid tears. “It's not the same.”

 

“That's my point.” Debbie comments, her face hardening. “Look, Mickey. What you've done isn't as bad as what she did to us, or what _your_ dad did to you. What they did _can't_ be fixed. This can.” She shifts to the edge of her seat, her hand squeezing at the top of Mickey's shoulder. “Mickey, you're a brilliant father, okay, _and_ husband to Ian. Okay, you slipped up – maybe more than some people – but you just need to get back on the tracks, you just need to fix it.”

 

Mickey already knows this; he's been told a million fucking times.

 

The words curdle in his stomach. He wants to hurl. “You don't get it. I _can't_ fucking fix this.”

 

Debbie's face scrunches a little, “That's what I'm talking about! You don't _believe_ in yourself, Mickey.” She points her finger over to Ian, her voice lower. “What would Ian say, huh? He'd want you to do this. He'd want you to _believe_ that you can fix all of this.”

 

Mickey glances over to his husband; his eyes beginning to water. He tried to imagine what Ian would say, whether or not he'd lash out and threaten Mickey for getting himself into this mess, or he'd help him. There were too many possibilities drying up in the cracks, forming him, to push through to imagining the future. It was too _hard._

 

_What would Ian say?_

 

Nothing, He'd probably kick his ass.

 

***

_Mickey's rolling his last joint between his fingers, the rest lined up against the coffee table before him. Ian's sat beside him, a bottle of beer in his hands, his eyes following each move Mickey's fingers made around the thin paper around the weed. Just after Mickey licks the joint shut, his tongue forming a line down it's spine, he chucks it into Ian's lap._

 

_Ian scrambles to catch it, when he does he searches for his lighter and sparks up. Mickey does the same, reaching into Ian's lap – brushing his dick teasingly – to get the lighter for his own. They both exhale, the smoke clouding up the Milkovich living room. Mickey hums around it, smirking as Ian rested his head back against the couch, the smoke flowing upwards from his mouth._

 

_Taking another drag, Mickey sighs, “Fuck, this is some good shit.”_

 

_Ian nods, pulling a drag from his joint. The buzz vibrates through his body at each inhale; he hadn't had weed this strong in a long time but Kevin insisted it was the best. He turns his head to the side, glancing over to Mickey with a curious glint in his eye. “Hey, Mick?”_

 

“ _What?” Mickey answers, blankly._

 

_Taking a moment to form the right words, making it not sound stupid, Ian asks, “Do you ever think about running away?” Mickey's face darts to the side, his eyebrows scrunching into a definite frown. Ian hisses, trying to elaborate. “I mean, like, do you ever feel like leaving here? Getting out of this place?”_

 

_Mickey's answer embeds into the smoke that he exhales, “Nah, man. I like shit how it is.” He sucks at the end of his joint, inhaling. “Besides, my dad would kill me before I even reached the fucking door.”_

 

_Ian nods, accepting. Mickey's dad wasn't the most pleasant person in the neighbourhood, and he surely wouldn't let Mickey leave with a free ride. The joint in Ian's hand is left abandoned as his fingers, on his left, pick at the rip at the side of his old jeans. In a low, yet clear, voice, Ian forms his own opinion; a pledging confession. “I have. I mean, yeah, I don't want to leave the rest of the Gallagher's to fend for themselves, but are we ever going to be better than this place?”_

 

_Mickey narrows his eyes in confusion, his joint limp between his plump pink lips, and Ian could notice his mind trying to work out each little word that he had spoken. Mickey shrugs, shaking his head as he turned back to the television set which played Double Impact. He was watching it. He tried to believe he was, anyway. It was hard to even concentrate with a motor mouth sat beside him spitting bars of bullshit._

 

_Ian shifts awkwardly at the lame response; he wanted Mickey to care, he wanted Mickey to tell him he was a fucking idiot for even thinking that they could ever be more than a piece of trash. He wanted Mickey to say something. Instead, he sucks at his joint, letting the weed bask over his mind in a haze. After a moments silence, Ian turns again, “Would you care?”_

 

_Stubbing the blunt end of his joint out, Mickey slams himself back against the couch. His answer is drawled, as if he wasn't even interested. “What the fuck are you talking about, man?”_

 

_With a sigh, Ian tries once more. “Would you care if I left?”_

 

_Questions like those didn't come often; Ian had always been scared to even ask Mickey a sentimental question without being hit in the gut or kick in the shins. Nights like these, when they were both caught up in a haze of weed, beer and after-sex glows, Ian could easily blame it on the substances they injected into their systems._

 

_Mickey barks out a laugh, lifting a joint from the table and placing it between his lips. “Fuck that, man.” He lights it up, chucking the lighter back into Ian's lap. “I don't give a shit what you do. I don't need your ass hovering over me like a fucking fly.”_

 

“ _So – you wouldn't miss me?”_

 

“ _Miss you?” Mickey laughs, again, his head tipping backwards against the back of the couch. He shakes his head, banishing incoming thoughts. “Why the fuck would I miss you? We fuck. That's it. I can find another fuck, easy.” Ian looks hurt, Mickey brushes it off pretending that it didn't affect him. “Stop looking at me like that, Gallagher. What would you expect me to do? Steal a fucking picture of you from Mandy and stick it on the mirror and stroke your fucking face until you came back? Nah, man, you're living in a fucking dream.”_

 

_Ian didn't expect the spiel from Mickey; and what he recognised was a blabbing ball of nerves sat beside him. He didn't point it out, obviously – he still wanted his kneecaps, thanks. Nodding, that's all he could do, he couldn't argue with the fact that Mickey didn't give a shit whether or not he left because he had never expected him to. This was Mickey Milkovich; Terry's son; and no one expected him to give a shit._

 

_Even though, Mickey had spilled his guts, rectifying the fact that he didn't like Ian like that and typically used him just to fuck, Ian still felt as if there was something Mickey wasn't letting on; that there was something beneath the hard exterior, something that actually had feelings, that cared._

 

_When the day would come that Ian would have enough courage to leave, maybe pursue his dream of being in the army, he hoped Mickey would let that something out._

 

_***_

The family unit was quieter this time, the third time Mickey had visited, probably because the kids in the place were now starting to get used to his disruptive presence and accepted that he sat in the corner of the room, waiting, listening to each sound of the crowded and cluttered commotion, watching the large doors; hoping.

 

Mickey's sits, agitated, at the same table, by the same window, waiting for the same door to open and hoping that his kids would tumble out to see him. It was a thriving anticipation; some would stick a needle in their vein just to try and control that sort of stimulation. Mickey would remember the feeling, back in the ring, when his fists were defending his face.

 

Leg bouncing, heart beating rapidly, fingers twitching underneath the table; Mickey was having a hard time keeping still in the mind-set of uncertainty. It could be another naff day; where neither of his children wanted to see him and he'd be back at square one trying to pick up the smashed pieces that were laid out before him.

 

His lips haven't touched alcohol in a while – it didn't feel usual – and water had become his new bestfriend. He laughs at that thought; Ian would probably beam at him if he new about the sudden, new absence of Mickey's alcohol intake.

 

Mickey hears a click of the door handle, the door itself moving against the squeaking hinges. He looks up sharply, his body growing increasingly tense, stiff to the bone, at the thought of the woman walking out with nobody behind her but disappointment. Mickey hoists himself up from his chair, hands clenching and opening at his sides, waiting.

 

The same woman, who had interrogated him, walks out, a weak smile pressed against her red lips. She stares straight over to his direction, her shoulders deflating with a sigh. Why was she sighing? Was she too sick of Mickey's presence? The fear runs hot through Mickey, the red flush reaching around his neck and up towards his head, and he scans the area for the two, precious familiar faces that would light up his world.

 

She scoots to the side a little, her arm resting around Owen's small shoulders, and she smiles. Owen looks tired, though, blank rings circling the underneath of his eyes, his hair all tussled around his scalp, but when he finally notices Mickey, his father, his inspirited body over-loads with excitement and he rushes, desperately, over to Mickey.

 

“Hey! Little man.” Mickey laughs wetly, his arms open wide as they welcomed his son back in; back home. Owen leaps up into his arms, head resting at Mickey's stomach, hands tightly clutching to the back of Mickey's legs.

 

In a small whisper, Owen looks up, his eyes glazed. “I missed you, daddy.”

 

Mickey kneels, his arms still clutching around his son. He didn't want to let go. “I missed you too, buddy. I missed you too.” The little conversation was one they always had, even before Ian was shot, they would say _I miss you_ in a way to say _I love you._

 

Mickey looks up from his embrace around Owen, eyes pleading towards the woman. “Yev?” He mouths, heart beating fast. He wanted them both there. That's how it should be. The woman, however, fiddles with the edge of her clip-board and she shakes her head whilst giving him a sympathetic look.

 

Yev wasn't coming.

 

Again.

 

Mickey felt helpless, a misty haze acting as a barrier over his eyes. His arms wind tighter around Owen. Despite the fact he felt the awe and excitement of Owen curled around him, from what felt like years apart, it didn't feel the same without his other son at his side and Ian at the other. They were a _family_ and at this point there were only two remaining survivors; one who was oblivious to what had actually happened and was slowly deteriorating with the absence of his idols, and the other – a nervous wreck with no stability, trying to resolve and sweep up the mess he had encouraged among them all.

 

They were still there – but they were weak against the conflicting odds.

 

Owen shifts his father out of his thoughts, his small finger tapping at Mickey's tensed shoulder. “Daddy?” He calls out, his voice soft and delicate – almost breakable. Mickey nods for his son to talk, his fingers sweeping through the knotted, red hair. Owen gulps a little, before he rests his fingers into his lap. “When can I come home from summer camp?”

 

Struck back in confusion, Mickey looks around the room in observation. What was Owen talking about? This place sure as hell wasn't a summer camp filled with dreams and aspirations. It was a place that fundamentally reminded you that your parents weren't there to protect you.

 

Then he realises.

 

To Mickey it was a prison – a cold blooded building that took your freedom away, that took his kids away. But, to _Owen_ it was a summer camp – it was a place that provided him with countless friends that could some-what relate to him, a bed to sleep in, a situation that seemed like a vacation.

 

Mickey swallows the words that threatened to burst, the words that might jeopardise Owen's own sense of security. He pulls Owen further into his lap, glancing briefly over to the woman that always liked to hover and listen in, and he gives a smile. “You don't like summer camp?”

 

Owen shakes his head, head bowed and facing his tangled fingers. “No, daddy.” His voice is a whisper, sharp. The valves in Mickey's heart pull, tugging to rip away from his heart. Owen looks up finally, his eyes pleading desperately. “I liked it at first, daddy, I really did. They let me play tractors and drawing and I even got to paint with my _hands._ ” he lifts his palms, revealing them to Mickey, the small, red specks of paint still stuck inside the crooks of his fingers and embedded in the small cracks in his skin.

 

Mickey nods, not speaking just yet as he listened to his son managing to explain his reason for wanting to leave the place. If anything, Mickey was starting to think that Owen was speaking better, that he sounded yet more tangible. It reminded him of Ian; the way that he would ramble on about almost anything, never taking a breath between words.

 

Owen closes his palms, putting them back in his lap. He shifts a little against Mickey's legs, his eyes casting over the room, wondering. For a moment his eyes light up. “I even get a _big_ boys room too, daddy. I share it with Malcom.” He points across the room, directing Mickey's attention, towards a small, dark-skinned boy who was occupying himself with a pot of crayons and a few pieces of paper with scribbles plastered all over them.

 

Licking his dry lips, Mickey absorbs his son's reflection of the place. They seemed to be treating him well – the place and the other kids – and that's all he asked for. He just needed to get them out. From hearing Owen's opinion, and seeing the tiredness in his eyes, he wondered what Yev thought of it all, what he was feeling about the contraption of the family centre.

 

“What about Yev?” Mickey bobs his leg a little, knocking his son's day dream. “What does he think about this place?”

 

Owen shrugs his shoulders, hands still at his knees. The corner of his mouth twitches, as if trying to remain unseen, and Mickey had seen that small, intimate, gesture several times from Ian whenever he was hiding or attempting to lie about something. Mickey nudges his own shoulder against Owen's, encouraging an answer from him.

 

Letting out a low sigh, Owen stutters before he speaks, “He doesn't like it, daddy.” The words Mickey already knew were tumbling out from his son's chapped lips. “He hit Tommy the other day, like he really _hurt_ him, dad. They didn't let him see Daddy with me because he was in _big, big_ trouble.” Owen's eyes widen as he speaks. “Is daddy coming to see us?”

 

Mickey's lost within his own mind, tangled up in Owen's short, but yet long enough, ramble. Owen shakes him out of it, pulling his attention. He knew Owen was still in the dark about what was actually going on – even Yev knew. He knew that he shouldn't lie and give his son bullshit about Ian being on holiday or Ian just being in bed, like they had seen before, but by the delighted and star-struck gaze of his youngest, he didn't have the strength to tear out that light from his son's eyes.

 

In habit, and with nerves, Mickey curls his arms tighter around his son, shifting him further into his embrace in a unnoticed act of protection. He kisses in his hair, eyes welling at the thought of his son finally recognising what was going on. “Daddy's still asleep, little man. He needs his rest.”

 

Owen wipes his nose against his sleeve, sniffing up a little, his head rearing back to catch Mickey's shattered gaze. “Can we wake him up?” Owen's eyes started to falter, the tears rising up to the surface, a single drop falling past his lid and down his pale cheek. He wipes his nose against his sleeve once more, his inhabited motion in nerves. “I want him to come see me at Summer Camp, daddy. Can we wake him up _please?”_

 

Mickey only wishes it was as easy as that.

 

He wished that Ian was just caught in a deep sleep, that with a little shove to his shoulder that he'd wake up – but it wasn't as easy as that, it never had been, and Mickey knew the true reality that Ian might never get back from this; that he may never wake up.

 

With reluctance, Mickey shakes his head. “Owen, we can't.”

 

Owen's little hands grip tight around Mickey's arms, his eyes pleading and his words barely audible under the underlying sobs that quivered at his lips. “ _Please,_ daddy. _Please.”_

 

“Owen-”

 

The red-headed little boy slaps his hands harshly against his legs, his bottom lip pouting and quivering in an act to manipulate his father. Mickey felt guilt wash over, his whole body ready to reject any sense of stability. Owen blubbers a little, eyes narrowing and cast towards the ground, he crosses his arms against his chest, “I _want_ daddy.”

 

Mickey sneaks a look around the room, his eyes catching a glimpse of the woman who looked as if she could try and give a small smile, and he attempts to figure out a way to stop his son from breaking down in his lap. Owen didn't need to know the truth of it all, not yet, he didn't need his idol – Ian – in the image of a weak, bed-ridden, lifeless body lying in a hospital.

 

Gently, Mickey ducks his head a little, the pad of his thumb wiping away the fallen tears that dribbled down his son's cheeks. “Hey, Hey. I know you do, little man.” _I do too._ Mickey feels helpless in all accounts – Ian was always the one that would sort the crying, he would always find the right thing to say whenever things hit the fan. “Hey, you remember that story you told me about? Back at the hospital when we saw Daddy?”

 

Owen's eyebrows scrunch a little as he sniffs up through his blocked nose, “The one when the wolf burnt the house down?”

 

The look on his son's face is a picture; his dazed expression one that Mickey had missed over the last couple of weeks; he wanted to see that face every morning when he'd wake his little boy up. Mickey lets out a giggle, shaking his head, “No, the other one.”

 

The four-year-old juts out his jaw, the clogs shifting in his mind. “The three bears?”

 

It's adorable, really. Owen was trying so hard to figure out the story that Mickey was referring to, and his little face was twisting and squinting as he tried to remember the specifics. He lets out a exhausted huff, his shoulder's dropping in shame as he failed to cumulate an answer.

 

Mickey feels a smile creeping upon his face, his lips twitching as they curled up at the edges. His cheeks ached at the motion – the feeling new. He hadn't smiled in weeks, not once, and deep down he knew that his son would be the one to bring that smile back.

 

He leans towards Owen, whispering, “The one when the prince kisses the princess.” Owen's eyes widen, his face lighting up with recognition. Mickey hums, nodding, before leaning back in to whisper again, “I ain't no prince, kid. I ain't gonna wear tights or ride a horse, but I'm going to make sure your dad will wake up, okay? That's what I'll do.”

 

It was a hefty promise to make on Mickey's part – he had no physic abilities to verify that Ian would finally wake up at one point. Not only did he know that this whole story, that he had made up purely to keep his son safe, wasn't just protecting Owen from the truth, it was also masking the true reality that stared Mickey blank in the face.

 

There's a pause – just for a couple of dreaded seconds – and Mickey's body shudders in the thought of Owen finally putting the pieces together. Owen's lip pulls back, resting in it's belonged place, and he lifts his head slowly. Mickey only takes a quick glance to notice the small puddles starting to fill in his son's red rimmed lids, and he doesn't know whether to feel fear or hope.

 

In those seconds, Mickey thinks that's it. Owen had worked it out. Owen had finally realised that his father had fucked up and would hate him for the rest of his life.

 

Instead, Owen lifts his pinky that was still stained from bright, red paint. “Promise?”

 

_Mickey rubs his nose against Ian's chest nervously, “Fine, I'll fucking marry you.”_

 

_Ian's face re-shapes into the world's largest grin, his eyes literally sparkling as if they could belong up in the night sky that hovered about the house. He lifts his pinky, his other arm looped around Mickey's back, and whispers, “Promise?”_

 

_Pinky promises were childish gestures, that Mickey had never done to begin with, but he can't resist to pull Ian's smile wider, and curls his pinky around Ian's. “Promise.”_

 

The tears loop around his own eyes, the blurry waves shadowing half of his sight, and he lifts his pinky. He curls it around Owen's small, delicate one, their hands almost locked within the promise they had just pledged. Mickey smiles, a genuine smile, that was rare. “I promise.”

 

Owen leaps into Mickey's arms, his face mashed into his father's shirt, his small fists clenched in his jacket. He lets out a large sigh, as if the world hung heavy on his little shoulders – and Mickey supposed it did – and stayed there. It was warm, it was home. Mickey wanted to sit there forever, stroking his hand through his son's soft hair, humming pledges and promises, holding him tight against his chest before the world could steal him away all over again.

 

***

_Mickey wakes up to a chill at his side, the bed empty next to him. With his eyes squinted, trying to adjust to the darkness that loomed over the bedroom, he turns his head towards the vacant spot. The sheets were still crumpled from where Ian had been laid there, the duvet pulled back a little whilst still curled partially around Mickey's waist. He groans, pulling himself up against his elbows to give leverage to reach over to the side-table to grab his phone._

 

_It was three and Mickey knew exactly where Ian was._

 

_Yevgeny wasn't a light sleeper – he would wake up maybe three – four – times a night crying. Mickey knew that babies weren't like adults – they didn't yet have the capacity to sleep through the night without waking up. Hell, Mickey would still wake up in the middle of the night just to fall back asleep in the warmth of Ian's strong arms. Unfortunately, for Ian, Mickey was a heavy sleeper – he would sleep through anything it seemed, even his son shrieking at the top of his lungs. Some nights, Ian would slap Mickey's chest, demanding he get up to tend to their son, and other nights – like this – Ian would just get up, like an instinct, and run to Yev's aid._

 

_Mickey had always loved Ian's caring personality, even if he didn't admit it._

 

_He places his phone back against the side, fighting off the urge to fall back into sleep, and pushes himself up from their bed. Dodging the obstacles that threatened the sensitivity of his feet. He clambers towards the slightly open door, and steps out into the dark hall. There was a small sound coming from the babies room at the end of the hall – whispering – and Mickey followed the sound like a hiker would follow the North Star. Being quiet as possible, making sure that Ian wouldn't hear his heavy feet against the wooden panels, Mickey finally manages to get to the semi-closed door._

 

_There's delicate whisper coming from behind it. It's Ian's voice. “I'm here. It's okay, little man.”_

 

_Mickey watches quietly from behind the door, his emotions bombarding him. Ian was stood by the white, painted cot, Yev curled up in his arms, head lolled against the red-heads bare chest. Ian cooed and swayed on his feet, his index finger locked between Yevgeny's small hand. The smile on his face was almost blinding, his eyes crinkling at the side, his cheeks puffing._

 

_It was beautiful._

 

_The elation, the nerves , the butterflies that Mickey had failed to admit existed, the anxiety, and the euphoria all came together, and he knew. He knew that this was what he wanted for the rest of his life._

_***_

Mickey curled his fork around the stringy pasta, toying with the scattered pieces of meat that were placed against his plate. Mandy had made dinner. It's nothing special – just diced chicken surrounded by pasta. It was all they could afford at the moment, the money had drained out quickly – just as his lawyer had told him it would. Mickey didn't mind it, he enjoyed his sisters shitty taste in food, he liked the fact that she had made an effort to actually cook for them instead of ordering out.

 

The problem was, Mickey didn't feel like eating.

 

His growling stomach wasn't at the top of his priority list.

 

Mandy's talking to him, her words nothing but muffle in contrast to the deafening silence of Mickey's guilt and pain wallowing in his head. He stares down at his plate, counting each piece of chicken, twirling the pasta that was starting to grow cold around his fork. His conscious monologue felt as if it was slowing down, becoming more sparse, and the passing cars from outside his gate is the only indication that reality was still with him.

 

His trance deteriorates, his mind shifting back to the conversation laid out before him. His hand stops as he channels in to Mandy's words, catching the middle of her little ramble.

 

Mandy pushes the fork into her mouth then started to chew against the chicken. She nods her head a little as she spoke, her eyes wandering over Mickey with speculation, “So, we saw Ian today.” Mickey doesn't answer, he doesn't feel strong enough to do so. Mandy carries on, her eyes still dancing around Mickey's pale complexion. “I distracted the doctor and Iggy stole his file. It looks like he might wake up soon.”

 

Mickey just nods – taking it in. He's not really listening. Mandy imitates his previous actions, her fork twirling amongst the food on her plate. With a small smile, that Mickey fails to catch, she continues to explain Ian's condition. “He's responding to treatments, you know, he's doing good, Mick.”

 

Obviously, Mickey already knew this. Breaking and entry had it's advantages. That morning he had scanned through Ian's files, counting off the countless drugs they had dosed and pumped into his small, thin body. Mickey felt sick. He had only, really, just got to grips with Ian's pills. Of course, he knew that Ian was starting to get better, slowly, but it didn't say on the fall – at all – that Ian _would_ wake up. There was always that lingering possibility that his coma would never subside.

 

That made Mickey angry, if anything, and he wanted someone to pay.

 

Clearing her throat, Mandy looks across the small table towards Mickey. “Mick? You listening?”

 

It wasn't good to have the Devil and an Angel perched against your shoulders, telling profanities at each-other, telling you completely different things simultaneously. Their words were getting louder, his eyes spewing blood, and he couldn't hear a damn thing that made sense.

 

The only way to rid of them was to have his family home.

 

And he didn't have that choice.

 

To distract himself, Mickey chews against a small piece of chicken. He didn't feel like eating. Ian was dying and his kids were trapped in a fake home – he didn't deserve to sit with a good meal and enjoy it. All he wanted was the bottle of Jacks that he had stashed between the mattresses of his and Ian's bed, but he couldn't. He had work in an hour and for once he wanted to stick by some rules.

 

“I know,” He speaks with his mouth-full, expression blank. “I saw the file.”

 

Mandy's fork hits against the china of her plate, her expression matching the loud clang of the metal against it. “Wait, what? _How?”_ Her chair scrapes as she inches herself closer. “They kicked your ass out of the hospital, Mick, how the _hell_ did you get in?”

 

Mickey felt as if she was asking a question she already knew the answer to. However, Mickey's movements had become almost robotic – his mind set on eating nothing, drinking everything, and trying to forget how much he had lost – and he chewed lifelessly into his meal. He shrugs, the pasta curling around his turning fork. “I just did, aright.”

 

The air grew tighter and Mickey could feel a lecture ready to escalate. Mandy picks back up her fork, animatedly eating. She mutters to herself, beneath her breath, aimed towards Mickey with a bitter tone lining her words. “What? You don't feel like talking to me today, huh?”

 

Focusing on his food, Mickey ignores his rage, settling for his own bitterness, “Maybe I don't feel like speaking.”

 

From across the table, Mandy shifts awkwardly in her seat – for the first time she had no idea how to speak to her own brother, or what it seemed to be an imposter posing as her brother. She pushes her bowl forward against the table, dismissing it. “Mick,” She starts, letting out her breath. “Did something happen today?”

 

Mickey's eyes flicker towards her, his body willing to just _tell_ her how he was feeling, how coping with it was something he couldn't handle. But, Mickey wasn't like that. He never was. The only person he could really open up to wasn't even awake and, yes, he couldn't handle that. Blankly, he just shrugs, he can't do this now. “Doesn't matter.”

 

Just like Ian, his sister was persistent, she didn't back down because her brother told her to. Mandy steps up from her seat, rounding the table until she stood next to Mickey. Her eyes cast down towards him, hands placed at her hips. “Mick, what is it?”

The voices in Mickey's head had become a collective group, all suffocating him with yells and screams, and he couldn't hold them back. With a harsh scrape of his chair, he stood directly before his sister, his eyes still raw from insomnia. The bell rings and Mickey's throwing out his words. The curtain falls and he's exposed to his audience. “I don't know, Mands. It might have something to do with Ian cooped up in some fucking hospital, barely surviving, while Jay fucking Jones is out there doing any shit he fucking wants!”

 

He's yelling now, and he can't push himself to stop it. “It _Might_ have something to do with my kids being taken away from me, locked up in some group fucking home!” Mandy flinches, Mickey takes a step back, his hands running wildly through his hair. “Yev doesn't want to see me and Owen hasn't got a clue what the fuck is going on-”

 

Brushing a piece of hair back, Mandy places her arms before her. “Mick-”

 

The chains had been ripped from his wrists, the weight of his mind releasing into the open, and he can't stop it. It's too strong. The shores crash and the waves wash over the rails. Mickey feels his voice calm down, his words a little lighter but his shoulders still heavy. “He thinks he's in some summer camp, Mands. He should be _here.”_ The tears well up and Mickey wipes his eyes at the sleeve of his shirt. “I don't want them going from home to home like we fucking did.”

 

Stepping closer, Mandy wraps her hands around Mickey's arms, attempting to ground him from his escalated rampage of words. “I know that, Mick, I do.” Her voice is like velvet, and it feels soft against the sores at Mickey's ears. “We'll get them out, you said so yourself.”

 

Mickey finds himself chuckling, tone sarcastic. “Yeah, they totally want me to have them back.”

 

The place was probably glad that Yevgeny didn't want to see him.

 

Mandy bites hard against her lip, teeth slightly baring as she suppressed a frustrated groan. She shakes his frame, fingers digging in through his shirt. “Don't start this shit with me, Mickey.” Suddenly, Mickey stands still, passive. “You're going to get them out, Ian's going to wake up, and things will be _okay._ Why can't you have some fucking hope?”

 

 _Hope?_ Ha, was that even a concept in Mickey's life. Hope was just a false reminder that everything was shattering into pieces. It was a tactic that people used in order to mask the truth; that everything was slowly falling, that the pain was seeping through. Hope was a false God.

 

Mickey laughs again, shaking his head in disbelief. How could she actually believe that Hope was still there? That Mickey could even be capable of _hoping?_ “Hope?” He seethes, “When the fuck have I ever had hope, huh? We couldn't have hope growing up. We lived in a place that hope was nothing but a fucking myth, Mands, I didn't need it then and I don't fucking need it now.”

 

He only wished that was true.

 

There was a short moment – that they both shared – that when they looked towards each-other it was like being back in that house. Just little kids trying to hide away from the wrath of their father, two innocent children fighting against the person they should feel protected by. The room was struck quiet as they both realised that they were never going to change.

 

Mandy flicked back a piece of hair that has fallen before her face, her breath slightly quickened by the intensity of the conversation, and her words fall flat, soft even, her hands still curled tightly around her brother. “You need to stop living in the past, Mickey. That was then and this is now. You need to start thinking about what to do _next.”_ She gulps harshly. “What are you going to do?”

 

Mickey feels his heart jolt – a shooting pain thriving through the rest of his body – and his fingers twitch to touch the cold glass that was filled with toxic liquid. His mouth falls a little open, his words trapped inside his throat, and he feels ready to reveal his plan – even if it did sound stupid, even if she knew it wouldn't work. “I'm going to fight.”

 

Mandy's head rears back a touch, her hands loosening. She's confused. “What?”

 

“ _I'm_ going to fight.” Mickey repeats himself, reluctant to explain.

 

As expected, her face twists into disgust. Everyone hated Mickey fighting, despite acting like they were behind him with following his dreams. They didn't like the blood, the cuts, the swelling eyes, and definitely didn't like the risk involved. Ian wouldn't say, but Mickey knew, that he wanted him out of the sport, but there was a deep inclination that he wished he did.

 

His sister stands struck, still, her hands falling at her sides in defeat. With her eyebrows still frowning, her mouth twisted into a hiss, she imitates Mickey's words. “You're going to _fight?”_ She shakes her head, hands running through her hair, stressed. “Seriously? You're going to go back to _that?_ Fighting is what got you here in the first place, Mickey!”

 

Mickey's watching as his sister paces the floor, her hands tangled in her hair, uttering curses out into the open air of the kitchen. The house and never been so quiet, and it was sickening how Mickey was starting to get used to the coldness of the house. Mickey shrugs, unsure how to explain his urge to fight and win back the life that had been stripped from him.

 

He needed to do this.

 

For the kids.

 

For Ian.

 

For him.

 

Mandy sighs heavily, her eyes shutting closed, clenched. “You're bluffing right?”

 

Mickey shakes his head – why would he bluff about this? The rage starts to boil in the pit of his chest, the heat rising up, turning his sight red. “It's all I am! This is all I have fucking left!”

 

“No, it's not.” Mandy remarks, tears starting to brim at her lids. She had always hated him fighting, just as much as Ian did, and she didn't bother hiding how much it hurt her for Mickey to go back into the ring to get punched.

 

This wasn't something that Mickey _wanted_ to do, this was something he _needed_ to do.

 

***

Mickey's twenty minutes early for his shift to clean up the old gym – he needed to escape the house before the whole place blew up in confrontation. Not only that, Mickey needed to clear his head, get some air, distract himself. Mandy had walked out of the kitchen, storming upstairs and slamming the door shut to one of the bed-rooms. Mickey should probably apologise and explain his plan a little better, but he had forgotten that he wasn't the only one going through all of this. His sister had tried to help him and he pushed it away like it was dirt.

 

Like always.

 

He's fixing the light in the ceiling of the gym. He had noticed it the day before – it kept flickering and buzzing throughout the sessions and in all honesty he didn't fix it in order to keep children from going blind, or the risk of it going out completely, but because it was really starting to fucking annoy him – it didn't look like it had been touched in years.

 

As he adjusts the new bulb into the hoists, the gym door slams open. The ladder beneath his feet shake a little and the still-shocking memory comes flooding back – Ian's lifeless body, laying there in his arms, pleading to go home – and he clenches his eyes shut, hands tight around the unlit bulb. As it subsides, he turns his head towards the sound.

 

Derice is stood a few meters away, his keys dangling from the palm of his hand. Mickey can sense that the guy wanted to say something – Mickey knew that it would probably be the same words he heard from his childhood. _Get out of here, you're useless to me._ Mickey takes a breath, preparing himself for his job to be taken away from him.

 

The trainer nears over to the ladder, his keys rattling. “Hey, Listen.” Mickey keeps his hand against the bulb, his body twists to the side to face Derice. The older man tuts his lips, “Look, if you want me to help you, you've got to stick my rules. No swearing. No drinking. No drugs. You be here when I tell you to, not when you feel like it. You go in the ring when I tell you to, you throw punches when I tell you to.”

 

Mickey can't believe his ears; things were finally starting to change. All he wants to do is run to Ian and tell him what this guy was actually offering – the sickening realisation that Ian wouldn't be-able to hear it daggered him in the heart, the knife twisting and deepening the cut.

 

_Was he actually asking to train him?_

 

Nearly falling from the ladder, Mickey hides his smile. “Wait, you're going to train me?”

 

Derice lets out a bellowing laugh, his white teeth gleaming in contrast to his dark skin. He shakes his head, the striking emotion unusual for Mickey to witness. He looks down towards his hands, passing the stack of keys from palm to palm. “I ain't going to train you,” Mickey's heart sinks. “I'm going to _teach_ you.”

 

Mickey's not really sure what he's in for – but for his family – he's willing to try it.

 


End file.
